


ain’t it warming you, the world going up in flames

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Breeding, Come Swallowing, Dark!Bucky, Dark!Steve, Double Penetration, F/M, Fingering, Fucking, Hand Jobs, High School, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sloppy Seconds, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Threesome - F/M/M, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: “Peter really likes you,” Steve says quietly. “Just thought you should know.”“Um, I really like him too,” you reply quickly. “I do. I wouldn’t let just anyone do to me what...what he was doing.” Immediately after the words leave your mouth you wish you could yank them back in. You’re blushing furiously but the car is dark, so hopefully you’re the only one who notices.You catch Steve’s half-smile in the passing streetlights. “It’s alright. Peter’s a good kid, I trust him.” Which isn’t really what you were saying, but then his next words are, “You’re a beautiful girl, sweetheart. Stunning, really.” His eyes travel down your body, just once. “Pete’s a lucky boy. If Bucky and I were closer to your age, we’d both be fighting him for your attention.”***Steve and Bucky take a particular interest in their foster son, Peter's, new girlfriend.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader, Peter Parker/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 201
Kudos: 1199
Collections: Kinky Awful Stuff, R's Smut





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, I can’t believe I wrote this and am actually going to share it with all you lovely people. Please, please heed the tags and warnings - this is dark and filthy and really, really unhealthy for the reader (who is 18 in this story!). Ye be warned...
> 
> Title from NFWMB by Hozier

By Friday afternoon, you’ve had just about enough of the whispers and hushed giggles. 

You set your lunch tray down on the table just a little too hard, and the sharp  _ crack _ immediately grabs your friends’ attention. Their eyes dart around the crowded cafeteria guiltily. “Alright,” you hiss, “Will someone please share with the class what the big goddamn secret is? You know. The one that you’ve all been sneaking around behind my back about - great job, by the way, because I literally figured out you’ve been hiding something maybe five minutes after you decided to be all stealthy?” 

Clint Barton has enough of a conscience to look a little ashamed; by comparison, Natasha Romanoff simply raises her eyebrows and continues to pick at her nail polish. 

You set your hands on your hips and continue, even more incensed. “It’s been five freaking days. I’m over it. Just tell me now and get it over with so we can move on with our pathetic twelfth-grade lives.” You huff and finally plunk yourself down on the hard plastic bench. 

The silence is alarmingly palpable, even in the dull roar of senior lunch period. Your bag of Fritos squeaks shrilly as you rip open the plastic. After a few tense moments, you toss the bag onto your tray, thoroughly exasperated. “What?” 

They’re all staring. Not at you, though. Their eyes are pinned somewhere just over your shoulder. Tony Stark’s mouth hangs open, just a bit. 

Your patience is down to its last threads as you twist around in your seat to find out what, exactly, the big deal is. “Jesus Chr-“

And you nearly fall right off of the uncomfortable hard plastic bench. 

Peter Parker, nerd extraordinaire, valedictorian-to-be, and your crush since the first day of ninth grade, is wearing a massive sandwich board with the words “Will you go to homecoming with me” scrawled across the front in varying colors of Magic Marker. He’s got a hopeful smile on his handsome, boyish face. 

And he’s staring directly at you.

It takes a few moments for you to realize that the entire cafeteria has gone painfully silent. You gawk, feeling the flush rise to your face.  _ Me?  _ you wonder. 

No. It can’t be. You and Peter - you’ve been everything for the past three years - study buddies, wingman/woman, a shoulder to cry on - but it always stopped right before it could cross into anything more. You’d resigned yourself to it, and both fervently wished for and dreaded the end of the school year when you’d go your separate ways. 

But. 

There he is, grinning nervously, and taking small steps toward you. Frozen, you can only manage to keep yourself from keeling over onto the linoleum. “Hi,” he says shyly once he’s close enough to hear his shallow breaths. 

“Hi,” you answer dumbly. 

He cracks a small smile. “Uh, sorry about - all this,” he chuckles, using one hand to gesture at the board. Up close, the penmanship is even more loopy. “I just - I know we’ve been friends for a long time, and maybe you’d think I wasn’t, y’know, serious? If I asked when we were alone? So, I thought if I did it this way, you’d know that I, uh. That I meant it.” He laughs a little. “Lots of witnesses.”

Well. That wasn’t a lie. The entire twelfth grade was glued to your little telenovella. 

“Wow,” you murmur, still stunned. “All this, just for the...homecoming dance?” 

Peter’s face scrunches up, just a bit, as he considers. “Well, yeah,” he admits, and a tiny part of you deflates. “But, I was hoping that we could go on a couple of dates, first?” 

Now you really were going to fall over. Three years of hoping and wishing and watching him pine after other girls...and here he is, looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. You can’t help it, your face breaks into the brightest, sunniest smile. You feel his fingers rest lightly at your waist as you throw your arms around his neck and pull him in tightly for a hug. “Yes,” you gasp out, half-laughing, half-something else you cannot name, elation lighting up your veins like fireworks. “Yes, Peter.” 

You can feel his grin against your cheek as he pecks you there, and the rest of the cafeteria breaks into applause. 

***

“So, my foster parents, they’re really awesome,” Peter stumbles as he struggles to get his key into the lock. “Super great. They’re gonna lo-like you,” he catches himself, but not before you smile privately to yourself at the slip. “Really.” 

You squeeze Peter’s hand, a little tingle in your belly. Peter has been notoriously secretive about his foster parents, who just formally adopted him last year after the paperwork finally went through, and you count yourself as one of Peter’s inner circle to be meeting them in person like this. 

“They even said, like, you know, like, all - ‘Son, we oughta meet this young lady,’” his voice drops artificially low as he mimics a dad-voice, “‘it’s only right after six dates, why, back in my day-“ 

The heavy oak door swings open, and you’re greeted by a tall, broad-shouldered man with sunny blonde hair and a smile that crinkles around his bright blue eyes and widens as he extends his hand to you. “Hello there! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Steve.” His palm is warm and envelopes your entire hand as he shakes it firmly. 

“Hi,” you answer shyly. “I’m-“

“Oh, we know exactly who you are,” another voice drifts in, good-natured and deep. A second man, slightly shorter but just as broad, appears in the doorway. Close-cropped dark hair accents his strikingly handsome face, just as arresting as Steve but less...wholesome, like he knows something you don’t. He holds out his hand as well. “I’m James, but you can call me Bucky.”

Next to you, Peter fidgets. “Dad, can we come in now?” he asks plaintively. “It’s cold.”

Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder with a smirk. “Gonna make the kids stand out there all day, Rogers? The hell are your manners?” 

Steve rolls his eyes and gestures you both inside. Bucky comes up and takes your coat and bag as Peter hangs his on the coat tree in the foyer. You rub your hands up and down your arms as you take in the warm wood paneling, Tiffany lamps and faint strains of jazz music. Black and white framed photographs line the hall, and you recognize Peter in several, along with what look like versions of Steve and Bucky with longer hair, shorter hair, beards. 

“Your house is lovely,” you offer to Bucky with a smile. Peter’s hand drifts to the small of your back. 

“Ain’t much, but it’s home,” Bucky agrees. “Pete, you want to give your girl the tour?”

Peter walks you around the brownstone, and as you follow him from room to room your eyes grow bigger and bigger. You’re no art critic, but some of the pieces that hang from the walls are definitely worth more than your dad makes in a year. The furniture is elegant but comfortable, clean-lined and plush. There’s a state-of-the-art home theater system in the family room, a gourmet kitchen in gleaming stainless steel, and three bathrooms that are each bigger than your own bedroom with glass-enclosed walk-in showers. It’s clear that Peter has been adopted by a very affluent set of foster parents. 

Your eyes slide to Peter as he shuts the door to where he’s finished showing you his dad’s home office. “Pete? So, Steve’s your dad, right? And Bucky is…?” 

He pauses. “Uh, yeah. Steve’s my dad. And Bucky’s...my other dad.” 

It all clicks into place then. “Oh! That...makes so much more sense now.”

“Is that...a problem?” he asks, trying for flippant but missing the mark horribly. 

“No!” you exclaim. “Oh, Pete, of course not. You just never said anything about your parents to anyone, so I just assumed, and - I’m sorry. Of course it’s not a problem. It’s wonderful. They seem like wonderful people.” 

The tension drains out of him so fast it’s like someone cut the strings holding him aloft. “Oh, man. They’re great. I got so lucky with them.” Your heart breaks for him a little then; to be a child in the system, bounced from family to family, and then to finally belong somewhere. You can’t begin to imagine it. 

You twine your fingers with his and lean against his shoulder, warm where your bodies touch. “Well. They got lucky with you, too.”

***

Dinner is a delicious pork roast, slow-roasted with orange slices adding a tangy zing, along with sweet potatoes, brussel sprouts and dried cranberries. 

Steve and Bucky ask all the requisite questions, and you respond with where you grew up (Brooklyn, which is met with approving nods), where you’re applying to college (NYU as a stretch but falling back on the CUNYs if need be), and what you’re going for (Information Technology with a concentration in IT security). 

Steve takes a particular interest in your prospective studies. “When I was in the Army I led a team of specialists, mostly counterintelligence. They specialized in threat analysis - sort through the bull and pick out the legitimate stuff, which then went on to command staff for investigation.” He takes a sip of his wine. “So I know a little bit about security,” he winks. 

“A bit” turns out to be the title of president and CEO of SHIELD, Inc., the leading security firm in New York, with roughly half the company dedicated to information security. By the time you’ve moved on to dessert, he’s offering you an internship at their headquarters in Midtown. 

“Careful what you wish for,” Bucky pipes up. He’s been mostly quiet through the meal, but now he’s smirking behind the rim of his whiskey glass. “Working for Stevie here might make you reconsider your career aspirations.” 

Steve shoots him a withering look. “Bucky does mostly consulting work,” he explains, “so no one has the dubious privilege of keeping him in line.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “Like herding cats.” 

Bucky makes a weak attempt to hide his grin. The two of them make such a perfect counterbalance to each other - Steve, commanding and confident; and Bucky, all devil-may-care and captivating charm. How Peter kept them both under wraps all this time is beyond you. 

***

After dinner, Bucky and Steve recline to the main living room to watch the news and catch up on work emails. You and Peter settle onto the family room sectional, a bowl of popcorn in your lap and the latest episode of  _ Stranger Things _ queued up on Netflix. 

Peter’s arm slides over your shoulders and you cuddle up to him contentedly. His fingers trail over the soft skin of your upper arm, caressing back and forth, the rhythm growing hypnotic as the minutes tick by. 

Beyond a few kisses and lingering moments in each other’s arms, you two hadn’t delved into the more intimate aspects of your budding relationship. There hadn’t been time, or opportunity, and neither of you seem to be in a rush to move things forward. 

Now, though, as his fingers brush over you, they seem to be leaving a trail of heat in their wake. 

You slide minutely closer, and rest your right hand close to his knee. After a few moments, your fingers drift onto the fabric of his jeans. At first he doesn’t seem to notice, but then his other hand lifts your chin up, up, and turns you to where his eyes are dark and myopic. He tilts down to catch your lips, and then you’re kissing, soft and tentative at the start but the fire spreads fast. His hands slip down to grip your waist and span across your back, twining in your long hair. Your back arches needily, pushing your breasts into him, and the friction on your nipples is at once delicious and electrifying and so, so new. A small, hungry sound escapes him, and you answer with one of your own. 

Carefully, Peter nudges you backward until you’re lying back on the couch cushions. His lips travel down your throat and collarbone, tracing every inch of exposed skin. Your hands run greedily over his spine, shoulder blades, feeling the lines and ridges of his athletic body through his sweater. You wonder fleetingly what he would look like without it on. Without anything on. The sheer naughtiness sends a thrill racing through you. 

His hair falls into his eyes as he lifts his head and asks you, “Can I…?” as his fingertips ghost over the curve of your breast. You nod fervently and guide his hand to cup its fullness. He groans and his hips drive forward of their own accord. The stiffness in his jeans presses up against your thigh, and the breath rushes from your lungs as you realize it fully. Peter’s hard, for you, from you, because of you. 

And it’s suddenly, abundantly clear: you want it. Whatever he wants to give, is willing to give. You want it. Between your legs, the desire pulses and demands, and you rub your thighs together for some tiny sliver of relief. 

Peter’s tongue is tracing the seam of your lips, where they’re parted so slightly, and pushes inside gently. His hand has migrated from your breast to your belly and strokes the bare skin that’s exposed above the waist of your pants. “So beautiful,” he murmurs as he breaks the kiss, panting into your mouth. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long. Never thought - never thought I’d ever get to be here. Doing this.” He kisses you again, sweetly. 

Even through the haze of lust, you manage half a laugh. “ _ You  _ didn’t - Peter, I’ve been waiting for this since freshman Earth Science.” The confession doesn’t hurt, not while you’re cradled in his arms and he’s looking at you like he can’t bear to look anywhere else. 

His smile beams. “Guess we’re both idiots, then.”

“Nah,” you tease. “Just you.” 

The ensuing tickle attack makes you squeal and giggle, but it’s short-lived as your knees fall open and Peter surges between them. Then his hips are slotted against yours and when he presses the length of his body against you, there’s a wave of pleasure that courses through you, hot and fierce. His fingers slip beneath the knit of your sweater and crawl up the smooth concave of your belly, and hesitate for only a moment before sliding under the cup of your bra. His thumb caresses your nipple and you gasp out, “Yes, please, more-“

“Peter.”

The deep, gravelly voice cuts through the fog of desire and you both spring backward from each other like a bucket of ice has been thrown on you. Your face heats up instantly and you hurriedly smooth down your sweater where it’s been hiked up. 

Steve is holding a glass of amber-colored liquid and leaning against the doorway, nonplussed. “It’s a school night. What time does your young lady need to be home?” He seems unruffled by the interruption he’s created. 

“Um, eight-thirty,” you answer in a small voice. 

“It’s nearly twenty after. Why don’t I drive you home?” 

“Oh, no, that’s okay. Really. I can just take the train-“ The prospect of sitting in a closed space with your boyfriend’s dad who just caught his son with his hand up your shirt made you nearly break out in hives. 

“By yourself? After dark? If I were your dad I’d be furious.” He smiles ruefully. “I’ll meet you in the car.” He disappears into the darkened hallway. 

You gather your things and head outside, Peter close behind. Steve’s in the drivers seat of a sleek-looking, immaculate Audi. When he sees Peter he shakes his head decisively. “Sorry, buddy. If I’m not mistaken you have a history exam tomorrow that you haven’t studied for.” 

Peter’s face turns pained. “I did study! Not like, today, but...I did.” 

Steve gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Alright, alright.” He turns to you and grasps your shoulders lightly, kissing you chastely before opening the car door for you. “Good night.”

The drive with Steve is quietly awkward, but he hasn’t forced you in any small talk, which you’re grateful for. Your mind wanders as you rest your forehead against the cool window. The abrupt end to your and Peter’s evening has left you feeling restless and fidgety, with an itch you can’t quite scratch. 

Steve’s deep voice shakes you from your ruminations. “Peter really likes you,” he says quietly. “Just thought you should know.” 

“Um, I really like him too,” you reply quickly. “I do. I wouldn’t let just anyone do to me what...what he was doing.” Immediately after the words leave your mouth you wish you could yank them back in. You’re blushing furiously but the car is dark, so hopefully you’re the only one who notices. 

You catch Steve’s half-smile in the passing streetlights. “It’s alright. Peter’s a good kid, I trust him.” Which isn’t really what you were saying, but then his next words are, “You’re a beautiful girl. Stunning, really.” His eyes travel down your body, just once. “Pete’s a lucky boy. If Bucky and I were closer to your age, we’d both be fighting him for your attention.” 

You freeze, confused. “But - don’t you like...boys? I mean, men?” you sputter. 

“Sure do. But not just men. Bucky and I, we both do.” Your mind is spinning. 

“Oh.” 

“I mean it. You’re gorgeous.” There’s heat on your thigh, and your mouth falls open as you register his fingers resting just over your knee. “I can see why Pete couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Probably got boys lined up around the block, pretty little thing that you are.” 

Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, stricken with disbelief. Was Peter’s dad... _ hitting _ on you? On his own son’s girlfriend? 

As you quietly melt down in the passenger’s seat, Steve’s strong hand still wrapped around your thigh, the car slows to a gentle stop. Steve throws the gearshift into park. “We’re here,” he announces nonchalantly. He sends you a sunny smile. 

Still reeling, you gather your bag to your body and pull your coat a little tighter. “Thank you for the ride,” you recite stiffly. 

“Anytime,” he shoots back easily. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sweetheart. I hope we’ll be seeing lots more of each other soon.” 

You scramble from the car gracelessly, slamming the door behind you and making a beeline for your front door. Only when you see the headlights recede, and then disappear down the street, do you relax against the warm oak, dropping your bag like a stone on the hardwood of the foyer. 

It’s only a moment’s relief, though, before your stomach twists. 

How did he know where you live? 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...it gets filthier, folks. Please mind the warnings and the tags!

“Hey.  _ Hey _ . You okay?”

The fork clatters to the plastic tray, startling you, and you realize you were the one who dropped it. “Sorry,” you stammer. “I’m fine, really. Just...tired.” 

It’s not a lie. Far from it. It’s been three days since your dinner with Peter’s parents and the bewildering car ride home, and you’ve barely slept in the nights since. Dreams plague you, dark shadows looming and shifting, inciting pleasure and fear by turns, leaving you a sweaty mess in your sheets by sunrise. 

Peter kisses your temple and pulls you closer. “Wanna come to my house after school? I’ll make you hot cocoa and we can watch something stupid on TV. That way if you fall asleep you won’t have missed anything good.” 

It’s such a sweet gesture, so Peter. You force a smile as you ask, hopefully casually, “Will your...parents be there?” 

There’s a minute tension in his shoulder, so miniscule that you wonder if you imagined it. He pulls away from you, enough to look you in the eye. His boyish face has taken a darker, serious quality, something stormy that reminds you of your evening together a few nights prior. His gaze is searching as he answers, “No. No, they won’t. They don’t get back until close to six.” 

A long sigh settles you down. “Then it’s a date.”

***

It takes almost no time at all to pick up where you two left off, and before you know it your sweater and Peter’s t-shirt are tossed on the floor, bra hanging from one arm, and his lips tentatively mouthing at one pink nipple. The fly of his jeans is dragged open, and his hardness pokes insistently into the soft skin of your thigh. Soft exhalations ghost through your lips; the want courses through you, consuming and primal, without even really knowing what it is you’re chasing. The combination leaves you thunderstruck. 

Peter pushes himself up on his forearm, eyes hazy and hooded. One hand slips down to the front of his open jeans, and his face twists as he presses it against himself. After a few moments, he whispers, “Will you...touch me?” 

The question catches you off-guard and you blink stupidly. Peter backpedals, pulling away. “You don’t have to-”

“No,” you interrupt. “No, Peter, I-I want to.” You hesitantly slip your hand against his, where he’s stroking himself over the cotton of his boxers. He lets out a little hiss when your fingers curl around his. “I don’t know how to - will you help me?” Your voice is small. “I’ve never, um. I’ve never done this before.”

He nods, sweaty hair flopping against his forehead. “I’ll show you.” Together, your twined hands free his cock from where it’s straining against the fabric. The skin is velvety soft and blood-hot; when you grip him around the middle of the shaft he lets out a stuttered breath. “God, that feels so good already.”

“What do I do?” His hand wraps around yours and slowly pulls both of you upward, until you’re circling the mushroom head, and then drags back down again. You glance downward and notice clear fluid gathering at the small opening at the tip. A wicked thrill races through you as you wonder, fleetingly, what it would taste like. 

Under Peter’s patient tutelage, you gain confidence in your ministrations. You relish the slick slide of your hand down his length, how he throws his head back, face contorted in agony. His hips begin to thrust forward of their own accord and soon he’s driving into your hand, slippery with fluid. “It’s so good,” he pants. “I’m gonna - soon.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. “What are you gonna - oh!” Peter swears, loud like it’s been punched from him. Thick spurts of white liquid shoot from Peter’s cock in hot pulses, coating your fingers and landing on your belly, your breasts. It continues until only a drop or two seeps out, and he sags against you like his strings have been cut. 

“Oh, God,” he breathes, once he comes back to himself a bit. “I-I’m sorry, I meant to warn you before I-”

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You both jerk upright, your arms instinctively wrapping to cover your bare chest while Peter’s reach down to cover his groin. 

Peter’s dads stand in the doorway opposite the couch, identical startled expressions on their faces. A briefcase is clutched in Bucky’s hand and Steve’s holding several white takeout containers. 

There’s a second where everyone is frozen, planted to their spots. Steve breaks the tension with a curt, “Peter, may I see you in the kitchen, please?” 

Clumsily Peter shoots you an apologetic look and clambers over you to grab his shirt, tugging it over his head. It’s backward and inside out, but like hell are you going to open your mouth now. He guiltily follows his father into the kitchen around the corner, out of earshot, and you catch the distinct sound of a zipper sliding closed. 

A hand towel appears in your periphery. You accept it sheepishly, cleaning the cooling fluid from your skin with hurried swipes. 

“Left you high and dry, didn’t he? Boys,” Bucky’s deep voice tsks. Alarmed, you use the damp towel to shield yourself. “Any son of mine has got to learn how to treat a lady.” 

“Could you go...please, sir, I just want to get dressed so I can go home-” you sputter, face burning. 

He hands you your bra like he’s passing the salt at dinner. “Kids these days,” he continues, and makes himself comfortable on the other end of the couch from you, shamelessly watching you. “It’s a shame, really. He better realize what he’s got before someone else does.” His eyes, piercing in the low lamplight, ogle you openly as struggle to pull your clothes back on. 

“I-I’m going to go say goodbye to Peter,” you stammer. Your bag feels like it’s full of rocks as you hoist it over your shoulder. 

“Did you put it in your mouth? Or just jerk him off?” Bucky calls at your retreating back. 

Dumbfounded, you can only stare at Bucky’s smug expression and deceptively relaxed slouch. The crudeness of his words leaves you nearly breathless, humiliation mixed with the wild lust that hasn’t quite abated after your unceremonious interruption. “What?” you breathe. 

“Did you. Put his cock. In your mouth? Did you suck him, and let him blow his load on your tits? Or did you use your hand to jerk him off til he came all over you?” There’s a gleam of amusement in his eyes, like he’s inviting you to challenge him. Your heart pounds, though whether it’s in apprehension or...something else...you aren’t sure. 

“I have to go. Please tell Peter I said good night.” 

As if on cue, Peter and Steve emerge from the kitchen, the former shuffling along like he’s been thoroughly chastised. He offers you a small smile, and crosses the living room in long strides to take your hands in his. “I’m sorry,” he says, “about all this.” 

You kiss him on the cheek. “It’s alright. See you tomorrow?”

The jangle of keys rings in your ears. “I’ll be in the car,” Bucky calls as he steps outside. 

You frown. “It’s fine, I can take the train, it’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble,” Steve cuts in suddenly, inches away when moments ago he was barely in your sightline. “Good night, dear.”

***

The rain has just begun when you pull out of Peter’s driveway, and turns into fat droplets that crash into silver dollar-sized splats against the windshield. The sound assaults your ears but it drowns out the constant buzzing in your mind. 

A few minutes into the drive, Bucky pulls the car sharply into an empty parking lot. “It’s coming down too hard,” he explains. “Can’t see a damn thing.” He puts the car in park and shuts off the ignition. “We’ll just have to wait it out.”

Your pulse races. “I-I can just walk from here, it’s fine,” you offer weakly. It’s a total bluff - the walk is more than forty minutes from Peter’s house, and who knows where the nearest train station even is. 

Bucky shoots you an unimpressed glance, and you can practically hear the  _ aren’t you adorable _ that he’s not saying. His face smooths out, and he rearranges himself in the driver’s seat so he’s angled toward you. Turning the full force of his attention on you. “So. You never answered my question.”

Your throat closes as you struggle for words. “I-I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you choke out, and it sounds hollow even to your own ears. 

“None of my business? Peter is my  _ son _ ,” he reminds you, firm but not unkind. “ _ Everything _ he does is my business. Now, let’s hear it, sweetheart. Did you suck him off?”

“No,” you spit angrily. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard. Next question. Did he make you come?”

What - oh. “No,” you repeat in a small voice 

“I’ll give the kid the benefit of the doubt. You got cockblocked, I know. Well.” He seems to consider something for a moment. “Seems that I owe you some restitution, then. On account of unfortunate timing.” His right hand extends to caress your knee, dipping between your legs to run his fingers over your inner thigh. 

You panic then, shaking your head wildly and pressing your legs together. “No, no, please, I don’t want to-” 

“Ssh,” he hushes you sharply. “Calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetie. I just want to make you feel good. Don’t you want to feel good?”

His words are gentle but his eyes are blazing, pinning you down. You get the distinct impression that  _ no _ is not an option here. “But, you’re Peter’s dad,” you protest feebly. “Won’t he be mad if he finds out…”

“He doesn’t have to know. If it makes you feel better, consider it practice for the real thing. I can gather you ain’t got much experience. You do want to please him, don’t you? And show him how to please you?” 

Slowly, you nod. It feels like a defeat, a concession. 

His fingers slip further between your legs, pressing up against your core. They rub in small circles and you feel the arousal surge throughout you, alive and hungry, seeking the release you were denied. Your lips fall open in a tiny sigh. It just feels so fucking good, to finally quell some of the persistent ache. 

You feel the button of your fly pop open, and the zipper dragging. “Pull ‘em down, beautiful. Let me see that pussy.” 

Your cheeks burn but you comply until your jeans and panties are pooled around your ankles. Bucky leans over you, eyes following his fingers intently as he dips one tip between your folds, stroking you. “Shaved. I like that,” he comments offhandedly. “I like seeing how wet you are.” He focuses his attention on the little bud just inside your lips, and you gasp at the pleasure that crashes over you when he circles it, despite yourself. “And you are  _ wet. _ ”

“Please,” you try again, “what about Steve? You’re  _ married-“ _

He barks a laugh, harsh and grating. “Sweetheart. Who do you think set up this little rendezvous?” 

You can only whimper in response, your hopes dashed. His fingers venture deeper between your lips, slipping further down to your entrance. You squirm, trying uselessly to fend him off, but he persists, dipping into your hole with practiced ease. His eyes are glued to you, drinking in the sight hungrily. 

“You ever had anything inside you?” You shake your head miserably. “No? No toys, not even your own fingers?” You shake again. “Good.” Slowly but firmly, he pushes his middle finger deep into your hole. 

You cry out at the intrusion, which only seems to fuel his onslaught. “So tight, baby girl. Can barely get in there,” he chuckles cruelly. “Don’t know how you’re gonna take my cock, I’ll split you in two.” He pumps his finger in, out, steadily fucking you with leisurely thrusts. 

You gasp with renewed hysteria. “Please - no, I’m not ready-“ 

“Ssh,” he quiets you. “Not today, sweetheart. We got to work up to that.” His other hand cups your breast through your sweater. “Besides, Stevie and I haven’t figured out who’s gonna be the one to pop that sweet little cherry of yours.” 

The inside of the car begins to spin. His fingers begin to work faster inside you. 

“Come for me, beautiful.” His palm rubs against that spot at the front of your pussy, the one that consumes the rest of you with desperation and lust and pure need. “You want it so bad, I can smell it on you. Stop fighting and let me make you feel good.”

Despite your anguish, the pleasure builds and deepens, swallowing you up in its intensity. Bucky’s eyes are blown nearly black as he fondles your breasts and fingers your drenched pussy. The climax, when it finally hits, takes you nearly by surprise as it explodes through your young body, washing over you again and again as you ride out the waves. 

“Well, that was a treat.” 

You shoot Bucky a withering, exhausted look, but it quickly drops when you notice his other hand, steadily stroking his exposed cock. Thick and flushed red, you realize he wasn’t kidding when he said he’d break you in two if he tried to fuck you. 

Trepidation fills you; you plead, “Please, please, I can’t, it’s too big-”

“I ain’t after your pussy. Not yet, I told you.” He smirks evilly, eyes sparkling. “I want that pretty mouth.” 

Your mouth? You gape at him. It won’t fit, you know it. 

“Come over here, baby girl. I know it’s your first time so I’m going to be real gentle.” He snakes his free hand around the back of your neck and guides you to lean over his lap, face to face with his massive dick. “Open up, sweetie.”

Utterly humiliated, you obey. A whimper escapes your throat as his tip, hot and rigid, touches your lips, then your tongue as it slides into your mouth. 

“Look up here.” Your eyes flick up only to be met with a shutter sound as Bucky aims his phone at you with your lips wrapped around his cock. You wail in dismay, muffled by his thickness, as he chuckles. “Something to remember you by. Now, lesson the first: the wetter the better. Get that tongue to work.”

Pressure on the back of your neck forces you to take him in further, stretching your lips to accommodate his girth. His cockhead brushes the back of your throat and you gag and struggle against him, but he affords you no relief. “You’ll get used to it,” is the only consolation he offers. “That’s it. Open real big. Now close your lips like you’re suckin’ a lollipop.” He drags back out, inch by inch, until just the salty head remains, then drives back in. “Good girl,” he croons. “Just like that.” 

He guides your head up and down along the length of his cock, groaning and cursing. In and out, he used your mouth like a toy, a plaything for his own pleasure. 

Bucky places one of your hands around the base, where the hair is wiry and scratchy. “Use your hand,” he instructs. “What you can’t fit in your mouth.”

You comply, stroking the exposed length. His boxers are growing damp with your spit, and his hips pulse upward on every downstroke, meeting your mouth and hand with rhythmic thrusts. 

His hand slips into your hair, winding his fingers around the soft waves. They tighten almost painfully. “I’m gonna blow soon, sweetheart. And you’re gonna take it, take what I give you.” Before you can protest, his cock hardens even more and suddenly your mouth is flooded with warm, bitter juices, and every pump sends another spurt onto your tongue. He lets out a hissed “Fuck!” It’s more than you can handle and the excess leaks down your chin. 

“Swallow it,” Bucky commands darkly. His eyes are fixed on your swollen lips, where you’re holding his spend. You hesitate, grimacing at the taste, and he grabs your chin sharply. “Swallow. It.” The mirth dancing in his gaze is gone. “All of it.” 

Your stomach lurches as you force your throat open and let the contents slide down. He releases you, and you slink back to your seat in abject shame. 

He tucks himself back into his pants and lets out a contented sigh. “Not bad, sweetheart. Think you might be a natural,” he grins. Your cheeks burn as you clumsily tug your panties and jeans up around your hips. 

The ignition turns and the car rumbles to life, its expensive engine purring smoothly. “Would you look at that,” Bucky muses. “Rain’s stopped.” He tosses you an easy smirk and puts the car in drive. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the encouragement for this story! I'm flattered by the overwhelming response - and reassured that I am, in fact, not the only one in this dumpster fire of absolute filth. 
> 
> That said...I'm a little embarrassed to even post this chapter. If you need me I'll be hiding under a rock...

Two weeks pass. It takes nearly that long for the taste of Bucky’s come to fade from your memory. 

Peter spends a lot of time at your house, both of you under the watchful eyes of your parents as you work on physics homework and catch up on Netflix together. Neither of you test the waters again after your previous disastrous attempts at intimacy, and it’s just as well. Peter seems just as gun-shy as you, and content to just enjoy your company. You share small kisses and he puts his arm around you when you cuddle on the couch together. 

The homecoming dance, the event that had kicked off the most turbulent weeks of your young life, was fast approaching that coming weekend. Your dress hung on the back of your bedroom door. Blush-pink and short with criss-crossed straps across the back. Every time you glance at it, a tiny flutter of excitement tickles your belly. 

On the big day, your mother peeks through your doorway and stage-whispers, “Your young man is here!” You give your hair one last glance and grab your little clutch purse before heading downstairs. 

Through your open front door, you catch a glimpse of Peter in his nice gray suit, hair slicked back and a corsage in his hand. Your father is speaking to him, kind but direct, and Peter’s nervously wiping his palms on his dress slacks. Your smile is giddy and unstoppable. 

You step through the doorway, eyes only for Peter, and you watch his face morph into complete and utter astonishment. “Wow,” he murmurs unabashedly. 

“Hi.” Suddenly shy, you pause in front of him, aware of your mother snapping photos furiously and your dad’s vigilant observation of the courtship of his young, pretty daughter. 

“Hi.” 

A few seconds tick by where all either of you can do is stare at each other. 

“Come on, Pete.” Your blood runs cold at the deep timbre of the voice behind you. “Cat got your tongue?”

It’s all you can do to plaster a weak smile on your face and turn around politely. Steve and Bucky are leaning casually against the driver’s side of their sleek, late-model Audi. Steve’s holding a camera of his own, and you shudder a little when you’re reminded of the photos Bucky has of you. 

Judging by the gleam in his eye when you catch his gaze, he remembers too. 

You and Peter spend the next fifteen minutes modeling all of the requisite high-school-dance poses. Both sets of parents take an absurd quantity of pictures while you both roll your eyes and turn this way and that. Finally, you’re deemed sufficiently photographed, and are ready to be sent on your way. 

“We’ll drop you guys off,” Steve offers magnanimously as he slips into the driver’s seat. “Pete, you wanna get the door for your girl?” He gestures to the rear driver’s door. Peter graciously opens it for you and you settle carefully inside. 

“Actually, do you mind if I have a word before you go, Peter?” your father interjects. Your mom makes a face but shrugs. 

Peter answers with a gulp, “Of course, sir,” and shuts the door after you, leaving you and Steve alone in the car while your dad ostensibly gives your boyfriend the shovel talk. 

“Bucky tells me you two had a very enjoyable ride home the other night.” The doting-father voice is gone, replaced by an intimate, deadly tone that pins you to the warm leather seat. Trapped. 

You can’t bring yourself to answer him. 

“I’m a little jealous, to be honest. You treated Bucky so nice. What are you going to do for me?” His eyes, electric blue in the late-afternoon sun, blaze fiercely in the rearview mirror. 

You stare accusingly back, and will Peter to hurry up and join you. 

He feigns consideration before visibly brightening. “I know. You can leave me a little souvenir. Take off your panties.”

What little blood is left in your face drains. “My  _ what? _ ”

“Panties. Get ‘em off, sweetheart, and hand ‘em over.” 

“You can’t be serious. I won’t have anything for-” and the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. “Please, don’t. What if someone sees? It’s a  _ dance _ -”

“Then you better keep those pretty legs closed, baby girl. Now, off with them.” The edge in his voice brooked no argument. 

Humiliated, you begin to discreetly shimmy out of your underwear, fully aware that there were windows on all sides of you and anyone, including your parents, could glance over and see everything. After a few hopeless attempts, you finally wriggle yourself out of the lacy pink panties and shove them gracelessly between the driver’s seat and center console. You gaze longingly at your house; you could try to dash back inside for another pair, but you’d have to go up the stairs...

“Good girl.” You seethe at the platitude, and at your father for reading  _ Peter _ the riot act. If he only knew. 

The passenger door opens and Bucky settles in next to Steve. “She make it up to you?” he asks, just as plainly as if he asked for the time. You grit your teeth in fury - the bastards had  _ planned _ this. 

“Sure did,” Steve agreed. “Sweetie, open your legs and show Bucky what you got on under that cute little dress.” 

“Oh, fuck you-”

“Language, young lady,” he scolds. “Now, pull up that skirt and spread those legs for us.” 

Watching your parents and Peter out of the corner of your eye, you quickly lift your dress to your waist and part your knees, putting your bare, freshly-shaved pussy on display for both men, and hurriedly yank it back down again. “Happy?” you hiss. 

There’s a quick flash of motion out of the corner of your eye, and you catch just a glimpse of a black rectangle that Bucky holds out at Steve, smiling wickedly. Steve raises his eyebrows at the screen before returning the grin, and your veins freeze over like they’re pumped with ice. “You bastards,” you choke out. 

The satisfied smirk on both of their faces is answer enough. 

***

“Are you having fun?” Peter shouts into your ear, barely audible over the deafening roar of the four-foot speakers. 

“Yes!” you yell back.

“What?”

“ _ Yes! _ ”

“ _ What? _ ”

Exasperated you grab his face and look him in the eye as you nod your head up and down firmly. “Okay!” he responds, laughing. “You don’t have to yell!” 

The school gym is barely controlled chaos, a lively, pulsating sea of students dancing or congregating in small groups, and packed nearly to the brim. Disco lights strobe and circulate over the crowd in shades of magenta and lime green and electric blue. 

Breathless and panting from nearly an hour on the gym floor, dancing with your friends and Peter by turns, you tug on your boyfriend’s tie. “I want to sit down,” you practically scream into his ear. He nods and takes your hand, leading you to an empty table. 

The next few moments happen very, very quickly. 

Peter pulls out a chair for you before plunking down into a neighboring one. Eager to give your aching feet some relief from your strappy high heels, you drop into the worn metal chair - or, at least, where you think it is. The gym is dark, with only the party lights to illuminate. 

Your skirt brushes the edge of the seat as you bypass it entirely and plummet straight to the waxed hardwood beneath you. You hit the floor so hard your teeth rattle. A jolted squeak escapes you, more surprise than pain. 

“Oh my god, are you-” Peter’s down on his knees in an instant, a look of concern on his handsome face. Then, his eyes drop, and his expression melts away into one of disbelief. 

You glance down. Your dress is flipped up all the way to your waist, exposing everything underneath. Particularly, the lack of something. 

You’d forgotten, incredibly, about your missing panties. You’d been relaxed and having fun, and now it all comes rushing back in a tidal wave of shame and humiliation. Mortified, you pull the flared skirt of your dress over your thighs and slam your knees together. 

Luckily, your mishap seems to have eluded the notice of your peers, so only you and Peter are privy to your ordeal. You force yourself to look up at him, expecting confusion and possibly, anger. 

Instead, there’s something else in his eyes. Something...hungry. “Have you...been like that all night?” he asks, a little choked. 

Disgraced, you nod. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His gaze breaks away and his pupils dart wildly around. “Come with me,” he urges suddenly, clasping your hand and pulling you to your feet. 

He doesn’t so much lead you as pull you through the throngs of classmates, a man on a mission. The two of you slip through a side door and out into a hallway that’s deserted and half-dark. Your heels tap on the linoleum as you try your best to keep pace with Peter’s determined strides. 

“Where are we going?” you ask. 

He doesn’t answer, just steers you around corners and down corridors until he stops abruptly in front of a nondescript wooden door. He twists the knob, jiggling it, until the mechanism gives way and you’re yanked sharply through the doorway. 

“School radio station,” Peter explains quickly as the heavy door shuts with a click. “Told Mr. Coulson the lock was broken last month, good thing he forgets so easy.” 

He pulls you close to him, chest heaving, and wraps his arms around your slender waist. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “It’s just, you looked so beautiful tonight and then when I saw...under your dress, I-” he pauses, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I couldn’t even think, I just...wanted you so badly.” 

You slide your hands around the nape of his neck, slightly damp with sweat. “Peter,” you whisper. 

“I can’t stop thinking about that night, when we were on the couch and you...touched me,” he goes on, the words spilling from him. “You made me feel so good. I wanted to do it for you, too. I-I wanted to see what you look like when you...do that.” He blinks, and when his eyes meet yours they’re clear and bright with intent. “When you come.” 

His gaze drops. You could count each individual eyelash that rests against his fair cheeks. The clean scent of soap and shampoo and sweat floods your senses. You inhale deeply, wishing you could drown yourself in its depths. The hard line of his body pressed against yours - one continuous line of contact, and still you want more, more,  _ more _ . 

“Peter,” you whisper again, this time with desperation painting the edge of your voice. “Please.” 

It’s all he needs to hear. In one smooth motion he slides his arms around your hips and lifts you easily onto a nearby countertop. He steps closer, between your parted knees, and pulls you in, claiming your lips in a ravenous, demanding kiss. 

It’s like a lit match thrown on a line of gasoline. Hands, lips, every part of you both is thrown on the altar of desire with wild abandon. Your dress hikes up around your hips and Peter’s fingers slip between your folds, stroking and circling. The thrill rushes through your entire body as it screams for  _ more _ . 

His thumb brushes over your clit (you know the word for it now, after a mortifying research session on Wikipedia) and you can’t help your moans, lewd and obscene. “Show me,” he breathes into your ear. “Show me what to do, please, I want it to be good for you.”

You guide his hand to stroke circles over your clit, then to push two fingers inside you, pumping steadily. Filthy moans fall from your lips as he strums your most intimate places like a cherished instrument. Through your half-lidded eyes you watch Peter watch you with a mixture of awe and brazen hunger painted all over his boyish face. “God, that’s - yes, please, keep going-“ and it’s moments later that the delicious sensations reach their peak, and you’re crying out as the orgasm consumes you until you’re nothing but ash in its wake. 

“That was…” Wonder and reverence have struck Peter nearly speechless. His fingers are still buried deep within you and you feel the loss as he slips them free. 

“Amazing,” you finish for him. You surge forward to seal your lips to his, licking into his mouth. “Your turn.” Your voice, throaty and seductive, hardly sounds familiar to your own ears. 

Peter trades places with you and leans back against the ancient laminate counter, stacked high with AV equipment. You lock eyes with him and slowly sink to your knees. You can catch a glimpse of the whites around his irises as his mouth drops open. “What are you-oh, fuck,” his knees nearly collapse and his knuckles whiten as he clutches the counter behind him. Your hand cups him through his dress pants and you massage him through the stiff fabric. 

The sound of his zipper dragging is piercingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Gently you draw him out of his boxers and in between your lips, suckling tentatively at the head and lapping at the clear fluid that’s already gathered at the tip. Peter is swearing and gasping even before you sink the rest of him, as far as you can manage, into your mouth. 

You use your hand to work the length of him that you can’t get past your lips. 

Your tongue swirls around the head and underneath the shaft, keeping him slick, saliva dripping onto your chest and trailing between your breasts. 

Your head bobs lewdly, his fingers resting lightly at the back of your head. You’re careful to keep your teeth away from the velvety flesh. He grunts and whispers your name here and there; when you glance up he’s got his head rolled back, panting softly. 

Time stretches and bends; it could be ten minutes or an hour before Peter tenses and grits out, “Shit, oh God baby, I’m gonna-“ and floods your mouth with hot pulses. It’s warm and salty and you gulp over and over, just like - 

_ Just like you were taught.  _

***

Your legs weigh a ton each as you trudge up the stairs, strappy heels in one hand and your little clutch purse in the other. Your parents had greeted you at the door, clucked over you and how grown-up you’ve become, and promptly herded themselves off to bed. Eleven o’clock is pushing their upper limits, and you’re mildly impressed they made it all the way. 

Your door shuts with a click, and you waste no time tugging on the strings holding the back of your dress together. The fabric melts into a puddle at your feet. You hadn’t worn a bra, and having been divested of your panties early in the evening, you stood nude in the center of your bedroom. 

The top drawer of your dresser creaks a little when you open it. A pair of plain cotton underwear might as well be a million bucks to you in that moment, you think to yourself absurdly. 

You’re met, though, with only the bare wood sides of the drawer, cleaned out. “What?” you mutter to yourself without really registering the words leaving your lips. Your mind spins uselessly, landing on a stray thought here or there - maybe they’re all in the laundry? - and you stagger backward in utter confusion. 

Your foot lands on something solid - warm - and you stumble, but a pair of hands swiftly catches you under your armpits. “Careful there, sweetie.” The rough timbre of the words sends a shudder through you as the strong arms grip you, draw you in close. The realization sinks over you - he’s here, in your house, in your goddamn  _ bedroom _ \- and a fine tremble takes over your limbs. No, no, please, just  _ no- _

A yelp forms in your throat but before you can even begin to let it loose, another hand slaps firmly over your parted lips. “None of that, now. Don’t want to wake up Mommy and Daddy.” The strong tenor of this voice sends another shockwave rattling through you, fear wrapping its icy fingers around your insides and squeezing with all of its might. 

“We gave you a little wardrobe update,” Bucky whispers intimately, his breath hot on your neck. “We liked your little striptease so much that we decided you should make it a permanent arrangement.” 

Steve, dressed in all black, meanders into your line of sight and drops his hand from your mouth to cup your chin gently in one huge palm. “Please,” you beg, “please, just leave me alone, I-I won’t tell anyone. I swear. Please.” A single tear slips down your cheek. Steve presses himself against you and lewdly licks the salt from your face, drawing a small cry from you.

He turns so his cheekbone rests against yours. “Sweetheart.” The pet name in his silky, dangerous voice makes your stomach turn. “We’re just getting started.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Well. Um. 
> 
> I've been posting this story a chapter ahead of what I've written, a tactic that has now caught up with me. I'll be a little longer for the next update. Tis the season...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Okay. I am going to post this and then go literally camp out at the nearest church for the foreseeable future.
> 
> Edit: guys, this is the part of the story that really drives home that non-con tag. Please heed the warnings, they’re not just there for decoration...

As quickly as they appeared, the strong arms holding you like a puppet on a string vanish and you wobble under your own weight. The foot of your bed sinks and bounces as Bucky, wraithlike in his all-black clothes, makes himself comfortable on your duvet. He pulls out his phone from somewhere you can’t see, and begins casually scrolling through it. Like you’re all just sitting around watching TV or something, the bastard. 

You wrap your arms around yourself in a futile effort to shield your nudity. “I’ll scream,” you threaten viciously, though your voice shakes and cracks. 

“Go for it, baby girl,” Bucky pipes up from your left. “I’d love to show everyone your little photo spread.” He holds up his phone, screen lit up with a shot of you, eyes lifted to the camera and lips wrapped around his cock. His blue eyes, piercing in the golden lamplight, dance with amusement. “Think it’d make it in the yearbook?”

“You wouldn’t,” you hedge, your voice barely registering above the thunder of your heartbeat. 

“I would,” he pushes back. “Ain’t no skin off my back, honey.” 

And...it’s not, you realize. The photos he’s taken are all  _ you _ . 

“Fuck you,” you bite off, bitterly. “I hate you so much.”

Hands, hot and powerful, slide along the backs of yours and cup where you’re hiding yourself from their leering eyes. “Aw, but you don’t,” Steve chides. A thick finger worms its way between your legs and traces the slick parting of your folds. He slips it further into your warmth, circling your clit with teasing strokes. 

And...fuck it all...it just feels so goddamn  _ good _ , the way his hands know exactly how and where and for how long to linger over you. The lust reignites inside you, sending pulses of pleasure rippling down your spine. Despite your fear and revulsion of both men, the shame of being dominated and coerced, the guilt for lying to a sweet boy you’ve pined after for years - Steve and Bucky have awakened the feral, primitive part of your brain. The part that wants and craves and leaves only ashes in its wake. 

No matter the cost. 

“You don’t,” he repeats, firmer this time. “You think you do. But we know you, sweetheart. We know that tight little body. And it wants us just as bad as we want you.” To prove his point, he strums your clit like a master violinist would his most cherished instrument; wringing out every ounce you have to give and yet reverent, worshipful. He demands every last atom of your being. 

And he makes you want to give it. 

Your knees give out and your eyelids fall to half-mast. “I can’t,” you protest weakly. A last stand. But you can feel your resolve cracking. 

“Yes, you can,” Bucky chimes in. “Stop thinking so much. Just feel. Isn’t Stevie making you feel so good?”

Your head is heavy as you, with an echo of finality, nod just once. 

A gasp floats from your lips as Steve’s thick finger slips inside you. Your face grimaces at the wet squelch sound as he pumps in and out, lewd and telling of your helpless arousal. It’s just one finger but it’s thick, and stretches you uncomfortably. 

He pulls his fingers from you and holds them out before you both, before Bucky. Shiny and slick with the evidence. With slow, deliberate motions, Steve sucks them into his mouth, savoring you. “Mm,” he hums. “So sweet, baby girl. Best I ever had.” 

“You sure, Stevie?” Bucky taunts, leaning back on his elbows like he’s lounging at the beach. “You barely got a taste. Might be a little premature, don’t you think?” 

You feel, rather than see, the hungry smile on Steve’s handsome face. He grips your hips firmly, and guides you towards your bed, where Bucky is waiting like a kid on Christmas morning. 

He gives you a come-hither look, and pulls you up onto his body, turning you so your naked back lays flush against his well-muscled torso. His knees wedge themselves between yours and pry them wide open. Steel-cable arms slither around your ribs, pushing your breasts up obscenely, locking you in the cage of his embrace. You’re spread out like a feast on a king’s table - and judging from the ravenous gleam in Steve’s eyes, he’s got an appetite. 

“Bucky’s right,” Steve sighs, seeming put-upon. “I’m always jumping to conclusions.” He’s staring at your center, where your glistening flesh is exposed and open for him. You startle as you feel his finger reentering you and he thrusts gently, in and out. 

Your hips writhe, wrestling with the warring sensations of pleasure and abject humiliation within you. Bucky chuckles softly in your ear and suddenly you feel the hard line of his cock pressing into your ass. “Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the smile evident in his tone. 

Meanwhile, Steve has dropped to his knees before you and is leaning in to your spread pussy. You realize what’s about to happen a split second before his tongue touches you, lapping at your most intimate place. With renewed vigor you struggle against your bonds, trying desperately to break free. It’s futile. Bucky only squeezes you tighter, holding you in place for his husband to exploit. 

“Please,” you manage. “Please, don’t, please-“

Neither of them acknowledge your words at all. Steve buries his face in your pussy, tongue laving over your clit, dipping down to your entrance and licking around where his finger continues to fuck you. He caresses you with his lips like he’s kissing you. His tongue swirls over your clit while he seals his mouth over you and sucks, hard. 

It’s too much for your young body. You squirm, whining and whimpering, torn between wanting more and none at all. It’s enough to tear you in two. 

There’s a slight burn as you’re stretched further open - he’s slid another finger into you, you realize, and fucks you with both in the same torturous rhythm. Every time his tongue passes over your clit, you fight the urge to press your hips up to chase the sensation. “Please,” you repeat, dazed, unsure what you’re even pleading for anymore. 

The tension climbs unceasingly, your assailant giving you no quarter, no relief. Bucky holds you open and murmurs filthy, abhorrent things in your ear the entire time. He grinds his cock into your ass, telling you how you’re made to be their plaything, how much they love stripping you of your innocence, training you to be their slut. 

You can do nothing but take it, and you do. 

The tightening in your belly draws to a peak alarmingly fast, and with just the right twist of Steve’s hand and his tongue and lips on your clit, you shatter. Your hands clutch at the steel trap of Bucky’s forearms, cursing and trembling, as the waves of pleasure crash over you again and again. 

“You loved it,” Bucky breathed hotly onto your neck. “So beautiful when you come.” 

It’s several long moments before your eyes drift open, settling on Steve’s thick beard and blazing blue eyes. He’s shed his shirt, revealing an impressively muscled chest and arms. Your gaze travels down the hard pecs, the defined abs, following the trail of fine hair that led down, down…

His rigid cock stands at attention, with one of Steve’s large hands circling the base. He strokes himself lazily and shuffles closer between your spread legs. 

Apprehension dawns on you. “What are you...wait, please…” Your pulse kicks back up, breaths coming short and fast. 

Bucky cups one of your breasts and uses his other hand to roll a nipple between this thumb and forefinger. “We decided it was only fair to let Stevie pop your cherry, since I got your mouth first,” he says with a sinister smile. Steve’s lined himself up, thrusting shallowly along your slit. Bucky presses his lips right against your ear so he can whisper, “Gonna flip a coin for your ass,” just as Steve begins to press forward, breaching your virgin pussy. 

Your body surges up, panic seizing you. Bucky’s hand swiftly slaps over your mouth, silencing your protests before they can leave your lips. This was happening. You were going to lose your virginity to one of your boyfriend’s fathers. 

Steve’s hands rest on your hips as he drives steadily into you. He’s so, so much bigger than his fingers - or at least it feels that way. Your previous activities didn’t do much to prepare you for the intrusion. You crane your neck to watch him sink himself inside your pussy, one agonizing millimeter at a time, helpless to do anything but let him. 

When he reaches the halfway point, a sharp pain shoots through your pelvis and you tense up, whimpering. “Please,” you sob, but it’s muffled behind Bucky’s firm hand. “Please, it hurts, it’s too much-”

Despite the obstruction Bucky seems to have understood you. “Ssh, baby girl. You can take it. You’re doing so good. Just got to get you all loosened up, that’s all. You never had a cock in you before so we got to get you stretched out, sweetie.”

“No, no,” you moan, “it won’t fit-” 

“It’ll fit,” Bucky interrupts. “Just take it, honey. Good girl.” 

“Fuck, she’s fucking tight,” Steve chokes out. You’ll have bruises on your hips tomorrow, you know it. 

The pain flares up, white-hot and sharp, and you cry out when Steve gives a hard thrust and bottoms out inside you, filling you to the brim. His scratchy pubic hair rests against you, and you realize you’ve done it, you’ve taken all of him. 

“He’s big, isn’t he?” Bucky croons in your ear. 

“Y-yes,” you answer shakily, barely a sound from your throat. 

“How you doing, Stevie?” Bucky calls up. 

“Fuck,” Steve repeats, just as strangled as before. “God, feels fucking amazing.” He gives a little chuckle, and draws his hips back, slowly, pulling himself from your depths. You moan miserably behind Bucky’s palm, feeling every inch of him as he moves. 

Steve’s first few thrusts are tedious and excruciating, and his brow furrows and sweat gathers at his temples with the effort. You find yourself relieved that he had spent so much time with his face between your legs; if your pussy hadn’t been soaking wet from his attentions, you know you’d be feeling a lot more than just a few pangs of discomfort. 

His pace picks up not long after, building to a steady rhythm punctuated by the lascivious slaps of your wet flesh meeting over and over. The ache in your core fades with every slide in and out and is gradually replaced by a kindling flame, stoked each time his cock drives in to the hilt. 

Bucky’s deft hand sneaks between where you and Steve are joined and massages your clit. “Oh, God,” you keen, consumed entirely by the onslaught of both men intent on driving you insane. 

“Atta girl,” Steve pants as he pounds into you, a man possessed. “You’re gonna come for us? Gonna come on my cock?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer; doesn’t need you to confirm what’s already abundantly clear. “Yes you are. Give it to me, sweetie. Let me feel you.” 

It’s like you were waiting for his command to abandon yourself and your inhibitions; with a wordless cry you give yourself over to the tide of desire that’s looming beneath you. The orgasm sweeps through you like wildfire. Your pussy clenches and pulses over and over for long, endless seconds on Steve’s cock. It’s pleasure beyond comprehension for your young, inexperienced body. 

“Beautiful,” he says breathlessly, drinking in your naked form draped over Bucky’s chest, shaking through the aftershocks of your release. “Gonna come too, baby girl-“

With a growl, his hips slam into yours one final time before he swears and his body goes completely still, buried deep. Wet heat seeps through your core as his thrusts slow. He’s come inside you, you realize with utter dismay. Fucked you raw and pumped you full of his seed. 

He withdraws from you with a grimace. You can feel the trickle of come dripping out of your used pussy, open from his thick cock, and leaving wet stains on the crotch of your captor’s black jeans. 

Under you, Bucky purrs. “My turn.”

***

You squirm in fear and trepidation at the prospect of another cock inside you - Steve nearly split you in half, there’s no way you can handle another, not so soon.

Bucky wastes no time, unfastening his jeans and pushing them down his hips, dragging his boxers down with them. His cock springs free and rests against your slick pussy. 

Steve runs his fingers along your hipbones. “You did so good, honey. Took me so well,” he croons soothingly. “Now you’re gonna take Bucky. He’s been so patient, haven’t you, babe?”

“Damn right,” Bucky agrees in a strained voice. He rolls his hips, which rubs the topside of his dick against your folds. You moan despairingly. 

“I can’t,” you plead, half-choked. “Not again, please, please don’t make me-“

Steve cuts you off with a hush. “You can do it. We’re gonna take care of you, I promise. You were made for us.” 

There’s a prodding at your entrance. 

“Please,” you persist, but it’s no use. The thick, rounded head of Bucky’s cock nudges into you, driven by the press of his hips. “Ah! It’s too big, it’s too much-“

“You took Stevie, you can take me.” The head slips inside and you whine miserably, more in shame than discomfort. 

It takes a couple of minutes but eventually he feeds his entire length inside your pussy. Steve stands between both of your spread legs, watching raptly as his husband’s cock disappears into his son’s girlfriend, her second of the night. A single tear trails down your temple; this morning, you were a virgin. Now, you’re not sure if there’s a word for what you are. 

When Bucky begins to thrust, the drag of his flesh against yours made easy by your and Steve’s combined fluids, you can do little more but lay against Bucky’s chest and surrender. True to their word, Bucky keeps his movements somewhat controlled yet filthy, his hips rolling more than pistoning back and forth. 

“God, Stevie, she’s a fuckin’ dream,” he sighs as he buries himself in you over and over. “Absolutely perfect.” His huge hands wander over your bare belly, your breasts as they sway in his rhythm. 

Having just come down from one orgasm, and teetering on the brink of exhaustion, you truly believe that all you’re capable of is simply enduring the affront. But, to your growing apprehension, your body begins to ramp back up, hard and unrelenting, and you find yourself relishing the sordid slide of Bucky’s thickness filling you. Unconsciously your pelvis rocks to meet him every time he surges up. 

“You two,” Steve exhales, sounding dazed. “I could watch you like this all day.”

“Take a picture,” Bucky suggests smugly, though his breath catches on the words, “it’ll last longer.”

Steve’s eyes light up. 

Bucky presses two fingers between the lips of your pussy and focus his efforts on your clit once again. It’s not long before his thrusts become stuttered and erratic, and you know he’s almost there. “Ready, sweetheart? You’re gonna come on my cock, just like you did for Stevie, and then I’m gonna fill you up, you got that?”

You can only whimper in response. He draws an orgasm out of you anyway, and once you’ve crested that wave, he goes hard at you, chasing his own release with single-minded intensity. 

“Please,” and you can’t begin to count the number of times you’ve uttered that word tonight, “please, not inside me, I’m not-“

“You’re so cute,” he chuckles. “Remember how this goes? You take what I give you, when I want to give it.” He’s really giving it to you, even harder than Steve had, and then he chokes out, “Here it comes, sweetie-” Not a moment later, he’s gone, cock bottomed out and spurting up inside you. Stars burst behind your eyelids as you follow him over the edge yet again. 

Both of you simply wilt where you are, boneless and fucked out, come seeping out from where you’re still impaled on his dick. The ever-present feelings of shame and regret creep back up like a morning fog. 

A sharp, brief flash of light startles you, and it’s then you realize that Steve’s cell phone camera has been documenting the tail end of your little tryst. When you crane your neck forward to see, a horrified expression twisting your features, he’s got the little lens aimed directly between your and Bucky’s legs where you’re joined. 

He catches your eye and smirks, redirecting the camera at your stunned face. “Smile!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thanks very much for all of your comments and encouragement so far, they really mean so much. The last chapter was...difficult, for a lot of reasons, and I appreciate the feedback.

The hot water pounds on your shoulders with punishing intensity. You barely notice the sting; your eyes stare blankly at the beige tile, water trickling down your lashes. 

Twenty minutes pass before you turn the faucet off. Once you’d scrubbed away the evidence of Bucky and Steve’s visit, you’d stood under the spray, nearly motionless. But you didn’t feel clean. 

You drag yourself to your bed, robotically, until the sight of it stops you cold. Turning on your heel, you stumble down the stairs to the living room and collapse on the couch. You tug a throw blanket over you and pass out almost as soon as your head hits the cushion. 

***

For nearly a week, you shrink into yourself like a turtle into its shell. You show up to school so your parents don’t catch on, but you take care to avoid nearly all of your friends as well as Peter. If they notice your reticence, they don’t call you out on it, though you catch Natasha giving you the side-eye at lunch. 

Peter picks up almost right away that you’re off-kilter. He studies you when he thinks you’re not looking and finds nearly any reason to stay glued to your side. Finally, after he asks you for perhaps the sixth time that hour if something is wrong, you close your eyes and say, with very measured patience, “Peter.” 

“I know, I know, I’m probably driving you nuts. You just seem so...off.” His kind eyes are full of concern, and an uncertainty that alarms you enough to snap you out of your cloud of melancholy. You shut your locker door and lean your shoulder into the cold metal as he fidgets with the strap of his backpack. 

“Is it me?” he asks in a small voice. “Do you...not want to, anymore?” 

You frown in confusion. “What?” 

“After the dance, after we...you know,” and he can’t help the blush that reddens his cheeks, “you sort of, like, got all quiet, and distant, and I thought maybe, I don’t know. Maybe something was wrong with me? Do you...do you regret it? What we did?” 

Your mouth works, opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no sound comes out. Your classmates meander past you, chatting and laughing and shouting at each other, totally oblivious to your self-contained meltdown. “Peter,” you finally manage. The rush of warmth and affection for this impossibly wonderful boy next to you chases away your demons, at least for now. You cup his face in your hands and kiss him sweetly on the lips. “I don’t regret a single second I’ve spent with you. Not at all. That night-“ and you stumble a little over the words, you can’t help it, “that night with you, I’ve wanted that for so long.”

He catches your fingers in his, raising them to his mouth and resting them against his lips. “Yeah?”

You smile, and it feels foreign on your face after days of apathy. “Yeah,” you whisper. It could have been just the two of you for all either of you notice the other students milling around. “I-I really like you. I wanted to do those things with you.” Your voice falls to an intimate level, for his ears only. “I still do,” you confess. And you realize, as the words come out, that it’s true. You still want him, and the uncomplicated, sweet thing you have growing between you. 

Peter’s lips press gently to yours, and you can practically feel the tension draining from his limbs. He slides his arms around your waist, pecks another kiss to your temple. You wish you could sink into him and never have to come up for air. 

***

Later that week, the weather dips hard into an autumn chill. 

It might as well be the dog days of summer, though, for all you notice. It’s the third night in a row of tossing and turning, restlessness plaguing you late into the night. 

It’s been weeks since you’ve experienced anything passing for sexual pleasure and your body will bear it no longer. Desire, carnal and hungry, coalesces under your skin, tormenting your senses, but every time you allow yourself to entertain the need...your mind wanders. 

The clock creeps up to midnight, then one. The sheets feel like sandpaper against your clammy, agitated skin, twisted around your legs and bunched in hard knots under your spine. You throw off the bundle of rumpled blankets and bedding in a huff. 

Between your legs, the ache in your swollen flesh continues to taunt you. 

You toss your head back into your pillows. Maybe just a little relief. Just to take the pressure off. You need to get some fucking sleep, after all. 

Your fingers inch down the plane of your belly and ghost over the soft fuzz that has grown in over your mound. The whisper of a touch alone sends your skin humming with anticipation; you bite your lip to cut off the moan that threatens to escape. God, it just feels so  _ good.  _ The last time you felt anything that even came close to this-

Fuck. 

You resolutely veer your thoughts away from  _ that _ , and focus yourself back on your middle finger as it slips between your pussy lips, already slick with arousal. You draw a few slow circles around your clit and your belly clenches as your body revels in the sheer indulgent pleasure. It’s amazing. You tighten the circles so they’re centered directly on the tiny button, and the sensations that follow hit you so hard your hips rocket upward off of your sweaty sheet. 

It’s an endless feedback loop of hunger - the harder your fingers work your bud the more your body craves. You glance down the long line of your torso, and suddenly you’re struck with the memory of a golden blonde head between your thighs, velvet tongue lapping at where you’re working yourself into a frenzy. It’s crystal clear, in bright vivid color, and for a second you swear you catch a whiff of soap and clean sweat-

You can’t help it, you whine at the intrusion, but the lust has your brain caught up in a haze so thick you’re helpless to fight the recollection. Insidiously it creeps up your subconscious, digging its claws in, and your desire only grows as the scene slots into place. The precise movements of his tongue as he explored you. Solid arms locking you in place. The stretch of your walls accommodating the thick fingers that filled you…

Your other hand releases its death grip on the bedsheet beneath you and makes its way, tentatively, between your thighs. You delve gently into your entrance with two fingers. It’s not exactly like you remember, but once you push them inside your pussy, knuckle-deep and then further, it’s like your body takes over and shoves you out of the driver’s seat altogether. You sink them as deep as they’ll go, breathing shallowly, again and again. 

Between your attentions on your clit and the relentless thrusts of your fingers, it’s not long before you’re quaking and squirming, racing headlong towards delicious release. 

The movie reel playing through your mind flips wildly, splicing together scene after scene with alarming rapidity. 

Peter’s awestruck face after you’d finished blowing him, wiping drops of his come from your lips; 

_ You’re gonna come for us? Come on my cock? _

The slick spurt of come flooding your pussy, filled to bursting with their dicks, one after the other-

It’s what tips you over the edge. The accompanying shame of reliving these moments is no match for the wildfire of lust engulfing every last molecule of your being. The pleasure crests and crashes over you in relentless waves, your walls pulsing and squeezing around your slender fingers. In the throes of your climax, you crave the sensation of being stuffed, used, passed back and forth. 

When your vision clears and the fervor subsides, you practically melt into the mattress, fading off into a blissfully dreamless sleep. 

***

It’s as if you opened a floodgate. Every night, you find yourself with your hand inside your panties, stroking and teasing yourself into a frenzy, visions of two pairs of hands roaming over you, two cocks inside your tight channel, filthy things whispered in your ear. You climax over and over, helpless in the face of such powerful cravings. Each time, after you’re sated and warm, you promise yourself it’s the last time you allow your mind to meander there. 

And yet, each night you give in. 

***

You and your parents rise from the padded auditorium seats, applauding loudly. Around you, scores of siblings and grandparents and proud moms and dads are doing the same; this is the seniors’ last winter concert, and so marks an important milestone in their high school careers. 

Slowly you file out of the auditorium, gathering in the wide hallway, waiting for your chorus members and clarinet players and soloists. 

You spot your particular trumpeter and grin. You race up to Peter and leap into his arms, hugging him for all you’re worth. “You were great!” Your voice hits a high-pitch register you didn’t even know you could reach. 

He’s grinning, cheeks flushed and warm. “Thanks!” The arm that’s not clutching his trumpet wraps shyly around your waist. 

Your dad reaches past you, holding out his right hand to Peter. “Nice job out there,” he says stiffly, trying a little too hard for gruff and just sort of landing on endearing. You send your mom a little private smile and eye roll, and inconspicuously take the trumpet from Peter’s fingers. 

Peter’s smile widens as he grasps your father’s hand firmly, shaking it with a confidence you weren’t sure he really had. “Thank you, sir.” 

Your dad clears his throat, like the words on his tongue were physically painful and he was trying to cough them out. “That kind of playing, you could land yourself a nice scholarship somewhere.” He seems almost surprised that he was speaking. 

“Thank you!” Peter replies excitedly. “Thank you sir, that’s, that really means so much. Wow.” You could almost exactly pinpoint the moment that his brain bowed out of the conversation and his nerves took over. “But uh, actually. I’m going to Cornell, sir. Engineering.” His fingers rake through his dark, cow-licked hair, adding new fluffs in their wake. 

“You got in?” The shock in your voice stops what feels like the entire building in its tracks, like a screeching record. 

Peter swallows hard. “Yes? Um, the-the letter just came in this morning for early decision, I didn’t have a chance to tell you, I’m sorry-“

He’s abruptly cut off when your arms slam around his diaphragm, pushing a surprised “oof” out of him in response. “What the hell are you sorry for? That’s wonderful, Peter! Congratulations!” You squeeze him like your life depends on it, and it’s only when your mom sets a concerned hand on your shoulder that you release his slender waist from your grip. 

He coughs, a little glassy-eyed, and gives you a watery smile. “I really am sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “I didn’t want you to find out like that, you know. In front of people and stuff.” He stares meaningfully into your eyes. 

And you can’t help it, the little stab of anxiety in your gut. Cornell isn’t a quick train ride away. “It’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out,” you say, but you can’t quite muster the sincerity into your voice. 

Your mom steps in to hug Peter and congratulate him next. As she leans in, your gaze lands on one of your classmates, Genevieve Hodges, and her mom in a lively conversation with a small group of parents. Mrs. Hodges’ claim to dubious fame is her scandalous relationship with one of the gym coaches while she was married to Mr. Hodges, and since your freshman year has been rumored to have made her rounds through the school’s male faculty. 

Your friends still joke about the incident last year at a party Genevieve threw, involving her mom, a makeshift stripper pole in their basement, and a very blurry YouTube video that no one will take responsibility for uploading. 

Genevieve is staring at her phone, tapping furiously at the keyboard, while her mother titters a high-pitched giggle and rests her talon-like acrylic nails on one of her captive audience members’ forearms. Your eyes are all set to roll when the woman flips her pale blonde hair over her tanned shoulder, and you catch a glimpse of who that arm is attached to. 

The breath whooshes from your lungs with a gust. His burnished gold hair sets off the cool blue of his eyes, even from across the lengthy foyer. The thick flannel hugs his impressive biceps and chiseled chest. The sea of dad bods and mom jeans fades into the background against his vivid presence. 

Steve leans into Mrs. Hodges as she stands up on her tiptoes, teetering on the pointy toes of her six-inch stilettos, and says something into his ear. His face breaks into a wide grin and they both laugh. Her long fingers settle on his elbow. A possessive gesture, a come-on. 

Something twisted and ugly unfurls in your chest, even as you simultaneously balk at yourself for the absurdity. 

He’s focusing all of his attention on her - gaze trained on her face, shoulders turned her way, leaning in like he’s enraptured by whatever vapid things she’s blathering on about. You know what it is to be subjected to all of that single-minded intensity. 

You thought about it just last night. 

Their little bubble is popped by the arrival of Bucky, who greets Steve with a quick peck on the cheek. You’re too far away to hear them speak, but it’s hardly necessary; Steve holds an open palm toward Mrs. Hodges and Bucky gives her a thousand-watt smile while he grasps her hand congenially. You shake your head at her antics - she actually begins twirling a lock of hair around her finger. 

“Hey.”

You startle when Peter squeezes your hand. “Everything okay?” He follows your gaze and spots his parents in the clutches of Mrs. Hodges. He makes a face. “Ugh. Don’t know why she’s wasting her time - they’re  _ gay _ , for crying out loud.” 

You try very, very hard to school your face into something neutral, but feels more like pained and slightly shocked. Peter’s brows furrow, so you make a show of rolling your eyes. “Right? Barking up the wrong tree, for sure.”

He chuckles. “ _ Barking _ . You got that right,” and you both snicker like twelve-year-olds. 

Over Peter’s shoulder, Genevieve’s mom laughs obnoxiously. Her artificially perky breasts bounce enthusiastically under her skintight dress, and you realize in horror that she’s not wearing a bra. 

Both Steve and Bucky’s eyes drop to her cleavage as if magnetically drawn, drinking in the sight. A tight knot forms in your chest and squeezes. 

The word, when it floats to the front of your mind, surprises you. 

Jealousy. 

The low hum deep in your belly flares up. Phantom hands cup your breasts, push inside you, while the ghost of a voice rumbles in your ear what a good girl you are...

The air is stifling. You barely hear your mom and dad announce that they were heading to your father’s office Christmas party, and remind you that you’re not to stay out too late. You give them a cursory, distracted farewell in return, Peter’s fingers linked with yours. 

As you both watch your parents’ retreating backs, you squeeze his hand firmly. He turns to you, a question in his eyes. You hold his gaze, dark and promising and full of intent. 

You want him. It’s never wavered, not through all of the torment his fathers have put you through. But, on some secret, subconscious level, the thrall you held over two virile, attractive men is undeniably intoxicating. To be the subject of such intensity was terrifying and, though it pains you to admit to yourself, a tiny bit thrilling. It’s only when the full force of that beacon shines elsewhere that the ugly truth is laid bare. 

Your body feels vibrant and purposeful, and thrums like you’re clutching a live wire. Peter continues to search your eyes like there’s something to uncover there if he just peers hard enough. You grasp both of his hands in yours, and whisper, “Come home with me?”

***

Peter’s knocked back onto your unmade bed, bare-chested and looking for all the world like you’re the wolf and he’s the innocent little bunny you’ve cornered. With one smooth motion your top is tossed to the floor and your jeans follow shortly after. Your plain black bra and matching panties (new, of course, after your existing intimates wardrobe had been unceremoniously eradicated) may as well be a garter belt and bustier for all of the sensuality you aggressively command. 

One knee lands next to Peter’s hip. You tower over him, a queen regarding her loyal subject. His handsome face stares up at you in a mixture of awe and supplication. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, seemingly unaware that he’s spoken.

You pull your other knee up so you’re kneeling astride him, and brazenly reach behind you to unhook your bra. The fabric falls from your shoulders and you shrug it off. Peter’s lips drop open, and he reaches up to cup your breast and run the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The sensation is electric, and only feeds your desire to consume him, every last drop. 

You unfasten Peter’s belt and pop the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down. You need all of him bared to you; you can’t bear another moment of anticipation. He hurriedly pushes the waistband down his hips, catching the elastic of his boxers and yanking them down in one sweep. 

His cock, already flushed and leaking at the slit, springs free. You waste no time getting your hand around it and giving him a healthy stroke from root to tip, eliciting a choked moan from your boyfriend. With a smirk you let go so you can hook your thumbs into your panties and slowly slide them down your thighs. He watches, stunned, as you discard the fabric to the floor. 

You’re a hurricane, a force of nature. The kind of storm that survivors talk about for the rest of their lives.

Once fully bare, you descend upon him, fitting your body atop his and capturing his lips with yours. Both of your hands roam hungrily over the miles of smooth skin, hard planes and soft curves. Peter’s thigh pushes between your legs and you boldly press your core against his firm muscle, giving your clit some much-needed attention. His mouth nibbles at your earlobe, the soft skin along your neck, your collarbone. Breathy sighs and murmured curses fall from your lips, lost in the sensation, reduced to a mewling mess of nerves and primal need. 

Peter’s cock presses insistently against your hipbone as he thrusts himself shallowly against you. “Goddamn,” he chokes out. “I want you so fucking bad.”

“Then do it. Fuck me,” you breathe into his mouth. 

His irises, blown black with lust, clear a little as he looks, really looks at you, as if it’s the first time he’s laid eyes on you all night. He holds you there until the scrutiny makes you squirm, like his gaze would burn through you and your tenuously guarded secrets. 

Fragile and impatient, you reach into your bedside drawer and pull out the one lone condom you have hidden away there (embarrassingly swiped from the school nurse’s office) and rip open the packet. With only a slight tremble in your hands, you roll it down his cock. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “You sure about this?” 

“Of course,” you reply almost instantly, then the uncertainty creeps in. “Are...are you not?” 

For the first time since you both crashed through your bedroom door, he smiles, and it’s honest and sweet. “You know I am. You have no idea. But...slow down, okay? Might be old-fashioned, but...I want us both to enjoy this. I don’t want you to, y’know, regret anything.”

He thinks you’re a still a virgin, you realize. Your eyes threaten to well up and you swallow back the lump in your throat. Peter takes your face in his hands and kisses you, deep and tender, and you can practically feel the maelstrom of confusion and rejection melt away under his touch. You give yourself over to the kiss, and it becomes just the two of you in your room, without the specters of others haunting you. 

It’s not long before the fire that’s banked in your body comes roaring back, full force. Though it must have been uncomfortable for Peter, he’s kept the condom on, and soon he’s thrusting himself along your slick pussy. As he pushes forward on one motion the tip catches at your entrance, and he meets your eyes, a thousand unspoken words passing between you. 

You love him. You know this now. 

You position him with one hand beneath you, and slowly sink down on his cock. He’s a decent size and so it still takes your body a minute to adjust to the fullness. 

When he’s reached your limit you sigh and lean yourself forward on your hands, relishing the sensation of him fully seated within you. He pants lightly in your ear. “Oh my God,” he groans. “I-I don’t think I’m gonna make it too long, baby, I’m sorry. You just-you feel too good.”

You reassure him with a peck to his cheek. “I don’t care about that,” you whisper, and begin to roll your hips. He tosses his head back into your pillows, moaning. 

He’s right. It’s maybe only two or three minutes after that that his face twists and he chokes out, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna-” and stiffens beneath you. You ride him through it, watching as he falls apart. 

Once he regains some semblance of his faculties he rolls you both to your sides and sets to work on bringing you off as well. His fingers dip inside you and work your clit and when he wriggles himself down to put his tongue on you, it pushes you over the edge not a moment later. The aftershocks roll through you like thunder after a lightning strike. 

Your bedside clock reads nearly eleven-thirty, and even though your parents are due back any minute, Peter spoons himself against your naked back, wrapping you in the cocoon of his arms. The turmoil that’s warred inside you for weeks finally quiets. 

Steve and Bucky may have taken your virginity, but Peter was truly your first time. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, guys. Thanks for hanging out in the dumpster with me - all of your kind words and encouragement have been so awesome and I sincerely appreciate all of the comments!
> 
> As a reminder - this is a DARK STORY. There is non-con, there are power imbalances, there are abusive dynamics at play here. Please, please, if any of these things are problematic for you, do not continue reading.

Peter just barely makes it out of your house in time before your dad’s Camry turns the corner onto your street, headlights tracking through the inky darkness. With a daring smirk, he lunges back and kisses your lips firmly before disappearing into the shadows. 

A half-hour later your phone buzzes on your nightstand:  _ Home. Miss you already.  _

You stare at that message, the screen casting a bluish glow over your face. Despite the chill of the air against your bare skin, you’re warm. 

***

“Sweetie, come on in here!” Your mom’s voice, light and musical, carries through from the kitchen to the foyer, where you’re shedding your heavy parka and backpack. You kick off your snow boots and elbow past the poinsettias and garlands - your mother doesn’t do holidays by a half, she treats Christmas like she’s decorating Times Square - and follow the smell of coffee and sugar cookies.

Your parents are seated on either end of the kitchen table, which is bare save for two long envelopes. Your heart begins to pound. 

You wipe your suddenly-clammy hands on your jeans and join them warily, eyes glued to the upper left corner of each rectangle. New York University, printed in purple. Admissions Office. The other reads...Cornell University, in dark maroon. 

Your eyebrows draw together. You didn’t apply to Cornell - one reach school was quite enough for your ego, thank you, you didn’t need the entire Ivy League writing you - so it must be some mistake. 

With your mom and dad’s eyes boring holes into your face, you slowly tear open the NYU envelope, and unfold the single sheet inside. 

Your eyes jump past your name, your address, and the salutation; the words you’re looking for are  _ we are pleased to inform you _ …

_ We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for admission… _

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You can’t read the rest of the paragraph, and the ones that follow; a small mercy to your disappointment. 

_ Thank you for your interest and we wish you the best in your educational pursuits… _

The letter flutters to the worn hardwood, and your father’s weathered hand closes over yours. “It’s alright, honey.”

You shake your head, sniffling and fighting back the hot tears welling up. “It’s fine,” you say, watery and fierce. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

You clumsily stand, shoving the chair back and scraping its legs against the tile with a creak. “Wait,” your mom jumps in urgently. “What about the other one? You’re not going to open it?”

Your mouth works, opening and closing like a fish out of water. You don’t remember applying. You hadn’t even considered it, even after -

Peter. 

The paper is thick and textured under your fingertips. It rips open and your slide out the contents - several sheets, not just one - and a smaller envelope, tucked up against a postcard, and a decal bearing the Cornell logo tumble out. Your dad gasps. 

The words feel floaty and unreal as you read over them once, twice, three times. 

_ Congratulations! The admissions selections committee is thrilled to inform you that your application has been accepted. Welcome to the Cornell family!  _

“Honey? What does it say?” There’s hope creeping into the edges of your mom’s voice, though she tries to keep it neutral. 

“I…” You can hardly choke out the words. “I got in.”

Your mother squeals and your dad whoops, elated and thrilled and practically bouncing off the kitchen cabinets. Your mind spins and whirls, racking itself for some semblance of understanding, some sense, and finding none. How could you gain admission to a school you’d never applied to? And not just any school - an Ivy League, the mark of success for all of your classmates at your prestigious technical high school. You hadn’t visited, shown any interest whatsoever, never even seen their website - 

Your dad announces that you’re going out to dinner to celebrate. You beg off to change into something nicer first, and once behind the safety of your bedroom door you open your laptop. 

Cornell’s homepage features glossy, high-color photos of smiling students sitting on benches in the sunshine, holding test tubes filled with some mysterious substance, wearing caps and gowns. In the search bar you type, pulse racing, “Steven Rogers” and press Enter. 

The very first result shows a professional headshot of a strikingly attractive blonde man with piercing blue eyes and a warm smile. You let yourself drink in the image and wonder, not for the first time, what this powerful man and his husband could possibly want with you. 

With trepidation, you click the link, and the page opens to a series of business portraits, most of the faces older and stuffy-looking. You recognize the names of several of the organizations that they list as representing. Your eyes land on one, though, that makes your heart sink. 

_ SHIELD, Inc.  _

And above it, the photo from the search results, captioned  _ Steven G. Rogers. _

_ Chairman of the Board of Trustees. _

***

You try, you really do. But the filet mignon sits like lead in your stomach. NYU was the ideal option not only for the school itself but your ability to live at home, thereby saving yourself and your parents an exorbitant amount of money on room and board. That option wouldn’t exist if the commute was four-plus hours one way.

You pick at your roasted vegetables. “Dad,” you begin in a small voice. “I-I know you and Mom are excited, but...how are we- _ I _ ,” you correct yourself, “going to pay for this? The dorms cost as much as the tuition-“

Your father sets down his fork. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you read the rest of the letter? Oh, you must have been just so excited you forgot,” your mom smiles. “The whole thing is covered, honey. All four years. Room, board, tuition, books, even a stipend for living expenses.” She’s practically vibrating with glee. 

You can’t mask your reaction and nearly drop your water glass in the process. “What?” you spit. “ _ How? _ ”

They’re both peering at you like you might have a screw loose after all. “The scholarship,” your dad says slowly. “Women in STEM, or something? I don’t remember the details, but the bottom line is you’re set, kiddo.” He nods to your mom. “I’ll admit, things were going to be tight, even if you lived at home. But we’d make it work, you know?” When he smiles again it’s free and relieved. “This just makes everything so much easier for all of us. Some of my coworkers, they had to give up their retirement to pay for their kid’s school, and they did it, because of course they would, it’s their kid. But this takes such a weight off our shoulders.”

Shame hits you hard in the gut. You knew your parents weren’t wealthy, and calling yourselves middle class is kind of a stretch. But, like kids are wont to do, you don’t worry about what it takes to keep food on the table or the electricity on. Your mom always gave you money to go shopping with your friends or see a movie, and Christmas was always a spectacle, loaded with gifts and surprises. 

You couldn’t ask more of them, even if the cost is everything you have. 

***

“Guys, I know - I’m the only thing standing between you and winter break. I know it, I’ve been teaching for fifteen years, I know how this goes. Fifty minutes and you’re on your way, okay?”

It doesn’t do much to quell the rampant socializing that the entirety of your seventh-period Life and Careers class (the brainchild of the NYC Department of Education’s latest round of Good Citizenship programs). The chatter continues as if Mr. Wilson wasn’t even there. 

Peter’s paper football sails gracefully over your propped-up hands, L-shapes forming a makeshift goalpost. The folded triangle hits you in the chin and you wrinkle your nose at him. He sticks his tongue out in return. 

A sharp whistle cuts through the din, swiftly silencing the group. “There.” Mr. Wilson looks inordinately pleased with himself. “Alright. We’ve got two very special guests today, the last ones in our Work at School series. Please give them your full attention and remember that your reflection essays are due next class.” The collective groan from the class is so synchronized it could be rehearsed. 

“Mr. Barnes? Mr. Rogers?”

All the blood in your body freezes. 

The smart board flickers to life, proudly displaying the SHIELD, Inc. logo, a circle of red and white rings with a white star inside a smaller blue circle in the center. It glares at you like an angry eyeball. 

The presenters file into the room, Steve Rogers tall and upright, James Barnes with a little more swagger in his gait. They’re both impeccably dressed in tailored suits and ties. You can do nothing but stare, wide-eyed. They recognize you, obviously, but don’t spare you a second glance. 

“Thanks for having us, Mr. Wilson,” Steve says, and the bastard actually looks  _ grateful _ . Your lip curls at the thought. 

Steve introduces himself and Bucky to the class, recounting their respective histories quickly. “We’re here to share with you guys a little about what we do, and what kinds of jobs are out there for someone with an interest in it.” 

You sit, stock-still, clutching your pencil like it’s a lifeline. 

The pair runs through a quick PowerPoint that outlines their company’s mission, vision, and basic operations. They employ between fifteen hundred and two thousand people around the world, depending on the projects and contracts they have running, most of them intelligence analysts and security specialists. When Steve shows a slide that lists some of the larger projects that SHIELD has been involved in, your eyes widen. You knew SHIELD was big, but it seems to have fingers in pies in every corner of the world. Eyes everywhere. 

The class is curiously intrigued. Questions from the audience pepper throughout. “What’s a security specialist? Is that just like a security guard?”

“Are you guys cops?” 

“So you’re basically the CIA?”

Someone starts humming the Cops theme song. 

Steve chuckles. “No, not in the usual sense. We don’t go after terrorists or send out missile strikes. That’s for the military. The hard part is figuring out which pieces of data are legit and can help the military make those decisions, and what’s just noise. We collect and sift through all of the intelligence out there that tells us where certain people might be, or where they might go next. Money trails are really good at that. If you can pin down where someone’s money comes from and goes, they’re as good as yours.”

_ Room, board, tuition, books, even a stipend for living expenses… _

“So you’re like James Bond,” pipes up a girl sitting up front. 

Steve laughs. “No, not nearly that cool.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky scoffs, giving Steve an incredulous look. The class titters with amusement. 

A tall boy sitting by the windows raises his hand. “So, are you like spying on all of us right now?” he asks in a dull, aloof voice. 

“Depends,” Steve shoots back with a smirk. “Are you a terrorist?” 

Bucky smacks him on the arm. “Leave the kid alone.” 

Steve puts his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m kidding, of course. We’re not spying on you, or anyone else. But you’d be surprised how much information is out there that you don’t realize anyone can access.” His tone has turned from jovial to low and dangerous, at least to your ears. Anybody else would think he’s just being serious about his work. “It’s our job to know those things. For the best interests of everyone.” His and Bucky’s gazes boldly swing straight to you, pinning you to your seat. 

It’s an ominous, heavy message, and clearly intended for you. 

Mr. Wilson must think they’re giving Peter the eye, because he interjects abruptly, “You know, I think we forgot to mention - for anyone not already aware, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are Peter’s adoptive parents.”

Everyone twists around in their seats to ogle at Peter, and then you by extension. A couple kids waggle their eyebrows at you both suggestively and snicker. One boy sitting a few seats to your right mumbles how he’s never inviting Peter to another party, ever. 

Steve grins. “Oh, your Halloween party wasn’t that bad. Your dad replaced his liquor cabinet with ginger ale and apple juice beforehand. You didn’t notice?” 

The kid pales. Steve gives him a reassuring smile. “Relax.” He shares conspiratorially with the class, “Mr. Rhodes goes to the same gym we do.” 

There’s muffled giggles before Steve continues, “Seriously though, take it from us, guys - you are not as stealthy as you think you are. If you think your mom or dad doesn’t know about that cigarette you had that one time or that you snuck in after curfew, trust me. We know.” There’s mirth in his eyes but something steely behind it. “Parents see it all.” 

Peter gives a theatrical groan and the class giggles. 

Steve circulates business cards for both himself and Bucky to each student, encouraging them to contact either of them if they have any questions or want to learn more. Mr. Wilson thanks them profusely and Steve graciously assures him that it was their pleasure, and selfishly motivated at that (“We’re always looking for talent! I’m going to snap these guys up as soon as they graduate!”). The bell rings promptly at quarter to three and the class wastes no time making their getaway, winter break so close they could taste it. 

Peter rolls his eyes when he sees the embossed card you’re holding. “I can’t believe he gave you one of those.” He bends to kiss your lips in a peck. “I got to go, Mathletes starts at three.”

You frown. “On the day before break?”

“Mr. Banner is a psycho,” he huffs. 

You nod in agreement. “Text me when you’re done.” 

He smiles and jogs out of the room, sneakers squeaking on the tile. You load up your backpack before taking another glance at the business card. Steve hadn’t given you Bucky’s, just his. You stare at it in distaste before deciding you’d chuck it on your way out. 

Unthinkingly you flip it over, and you stop in your tracks at what’s printed on the back in heavy block letters. 

_ OUTSIDE _ . 

At that moment, your phone buzzes in your bag. Stricken, you feel around for the device and unlock the screen. Your jaw drops in horror at the notifications you’ve received, text messages from an unknown number. 

The first is a photo. You open it with trembling fingers. 

It’s you, sprawled naked on your back atop a man fucking you from underneath. Your legs are spread wide, showing your pussy speared open on his thick cock. Your face flushes at the memory. 

The second is a message.  _ Come on out, sweetheart _ . 

Another.  _ Now. _

You glance around the now-empty classroom and hoist your bag over your shoulder. 

***

The cold greets you and your reddened cheeks. Your steps are heavy in the crunchy snow as you approach the Audi, glossy despite the slush and salt, waiting against the curb. 

Through the tinted glass you can make out two sets of eyes fixed on you as you draw closer. The locks click as you reach out for the rear door latch, and you slide into the backseat. 

“Well,” drawls Bucky from the passenger seat. “Fancy meeting you here.”

You don’t reply. 

The drive is short and the car pulls smoothly into the driveway in far less time than you’re prepared for. Steve cuts the engine and for a moment, the three of you sit in complete silence. 

“You got me into Cornell. You made sure I’d go there.” The words seem to drift out of your mouth like cigarette smoke. 

Steve catches your eyes in the rearview mirror. “You’d rather have Peter five hours away?” 

“Why are you doing this?” you blurt like the words have burst out of you. 

Both men turn in their seats to stare plaintively at you. “We just saved your dear old mom and dad about two hundred and fifty grand, baby girl. I think the only thing you need to be worried about is how you can thank us properly,” Steve growls. 

A sinister smile spreads across Bucky’s face. “Don’t worry. I got a few ideas.”

***

You’re barely in the front door before they’re pawing at your clothes, ripping open the buttons of your shirt and tugging your jeans down your hips. Your bra and panties are tossed to the floor. It’s mere seconds before you’re completely naked and they’re bending you over the arm of their plush leather couch. 

You feel Bucky’s hands at your hips and his hot breath over your pussy. “Gonna taste you, beautiful. Didn’t get a chance to last time,” and then his tongue laps a long stripe over the length of your slit. You gasp and mewl as he explores you with his mouth, dipping inside you and licking wetly at your folds before focusing his attention on your clit. 

You can’t help it, you squirm and moan at the onslaught of pleasure. It’s so, so much better than your own fingers when you’re alone. Your hips press back into Bucky’s face, needy and impatient.

Steve kneels on the cushions, facing you with his pants open and cock out, stroking himself lazily. “Open up, baby girl.” You obey wordlessly and he pushes the tip between your lips, driving forward until he nudges the back of your throat. As he pulls back, you slide your tongue along the underside of his cock and he curses. “Fuck. Made for sucking dick, I swear.”

“Made for us,” Bucky pipes up from behind you before launching himself back into eating you out. 

“He’s right,” Steve agrees, slipping his fingers into your hair to guide your head along his shaft. 

You can only moan helplessly around Steve’s cock. Bucky thrusts his tongue inside you as Steve mirrors the motion with his dick, and the lust coils itself into a tight spring inside your belly, ready to snap free at any moment. 

Bucky pulls away and the cool air hits your slick pussy. A clinking, metallic jingle and the rustle of fabric are loud in the otherwise quiet room, and the nudge of a blunt, hot tip of flesh pushes against your opening. It strokes up and down your slit in teasing; you can’t stop the desperate groan that falls from your wanton lips. 

The slow slide of Bucky’s cock into your depths is torturous. Your cheeks burn with humiliation at your predicament - trapped between both men’s dicks, speared like a spit roast. Steve pushes his hips forward and sways your body backward, forcing you to take Bucky deeper. You whine at the intrusion; he’s thick and you brace yourself as he splits you open. 

You despair at the realization that they’ll make you take Steve too after Bucky finishes fucking you; it’s a small mercy that Bucky’s stretching you out for them both. 

Behind you, you feel Bucky’s fingers pulling your ass cheeks apart, baring you to his gaze. “You wanted to know why, sweetheart? Why we chose you?” His voice is dreamy, floaty. “Because you’re ours. From the moment we saw you, we knew you belonged to us. No one else. Ever.”

He withdraws and slams back into you, claiming you. Steve frames your face in his hands, keeping you in place so he can languidly fuck your mouth. 

There’s a creaking sound, piercing amid the grunts and lewd slaps of flesh. A rush of cold air floods the room, heavy footsteps following soon after. 

No. 

Please, no. 

Heat warms your naked back as Bucky leans down against you to whisper in your ear, “And by ‘us,’ I mean all of us.” 

You know, before you even lift your eyes, what he means. It’s the last brick in the wall that seals your fate. 

His eyes are huge, stunned. He drops his coat onto the hardwood as he takes in the scene before him - his high school sweetheart bent over between his two fathers, taking one’s cock into her mouth and one deep in her pussy. 

You let out a harsh sob, even around the dick plunged deep into your throat, even as the thrusts from behind continue to rock you back and forth. This is the final shame. Your heart mourns at the loss of Peter, at the rejection and disgust you know you’ll find in his accusing stare. 

A gentle hand, cool to the touch, cradles your chin, turning it upward. Kind eyes meet yours, and you see only love and affection reflected back at you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Peter says. “I love you so much.” 

You can only stare at him in confusion.

“We all do.” 

Something clicks in your mind and it sends you hurtling into the atmosphere. 

“When I told my dads about you, and how much I like you, we all agreed you should be ours, that they’d love you just as much as I do. And you know what? We were right. You’re perfect for us.”

He strokes a hand down the length of your back. The thrusts from both men on either end of you begin to speed up, filling you over and over. Fingers, you don’t even know whose anymore and can’t find it in yourself to care, slip between your pussy lips and rub circles over your distended clit. 

“And we’re perfect for you.”

Steve groans and throws his head back as warm bitterness floods your mouth, nearly choking you. At the same time, Bucky’s hips slam flush against your ass and he gives a feral cry. A moment later, you feel the rush of wet heat pump into you, dripping out around where he’s sheathed inside you. Between your legs, the pleasure on your clit reaches an impossible peak and explodes, sending your body into shudders and lighting your nerves like a match to gasoline. 

“We’ll take care of you. I promise.” Peter’s voice sounds far away, but you can feel the heat of his breath in your ear. “Don’t you want that?”

Don’t you? 

It’s several long seconds before you can answer, and the word feels like an absolution, a confession, a salvation. 

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna just hide out behind this giant pile of garbage...don't mind me. 
> 
> As an aside - there will be a short epilogue I'll post in the next few days. Thanks again, guys!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t thank you guys enough for all of your words of encouragement for this story. Thank you so much!
> 
> As promised - the porny, slightly fluffy postscript. Enjoy!

FOUR YEARS LATER

The gentle applause from your small party feels intimate and special; giddy with excitement, you weave your fingers together with Peter’s. 

Your mother and father had stood to give their blessing, followed by Steve and Bucky (during which you blushed so hard you felt sweat drip down your temple). Both sets of parents reminisced about how fast you’d grown and what lovely young people you’d become. Your mom whipped out a photo of you on your first day of kindergarten, toothy and nearly buckling under the weight of your glittery unicorn backpack. A framed picture of Peter, grinning widely between his dads on their front step, gets circulated around the table. 

Your aunt takes your left hand in her pudgy one and fawns over the hefty solitaire adorning your ring finger. She makes an awkward, thinly-veiled jab at Peter’s ability to afford such a rock as a new college grad, and your mom comes to your rescue with a fresh glass of Chardonnay, whisking the rotund woman away to chat with your grandparents. 

Peter catches your eye from across the room and smiles, a private little thing meant just for you. You hold his gaze and feel your cheeks warm as he gives you a quick, flirty up-and-down glance. Your eyes go a little unfocused as the memory of the hours leading up to the party draws you in, Pete admiring the way your cranberry-colored sheath dress hugged your curves and dipped low in the back, exposing a wide expanse of skin. He’d traced a hot line down your spine with his tongue and kept going until he’d buried his face between your legs. He spent the better part of an hour taking you apart with his mouth, teasing your clit with two fingers pumping slickly into your pussy. 

A sizable gulp of champagne grounds you back in the present, surrounded by both of your close family and friends, as well as a number of assorted coworkers and neighbors and various other acquaintances. Names have begun to blur into each other. Your face is starting to ache from all of the smiling and small talk. 

“Sweetie!” Your head whips around at the endearment, greeted by the sight of your dad beckoning you over. An older couple is waving cheerily. “Come on over! I’d like you to meet Harold and Ruth…”

You drain the rest of your glass and plaster on your best grin. 

***

With a heavy sigh, you step out into the carpeted hallway off of the small banquet room and your stiletto heels promptly sink into the thick burgundy pile. You just need a few minutes to yourself and the ladies’ room is a few doors down. The wine and champagne you’d been plied with all evening makes your head spin as you wobble with each footstep. 

The restroom is elegantly comfortable, with an opulently decorated sitting area separating the door from the actual facilities. You focus very carefully on the motions of relieving yourself with the alcohol making your joints loose and pliable. As you’re washing your hands with the heavily perfumed soap, you hear the door creak open. 

You dry your hands on the thick, luxurious paper towels that are artfully arranged in a wicker basket on the long vanity. There’s a full-length mirror on the adjacent wall; you wander over to check your dress, your hair, make sure there aren’t bits of toilet paper stuck to your heel. 

The figure in the reflection isn’t just yours, though. The steel-grey dress shirt has its cuffs rolled to the elbows, leaving sinewy forearms exposed up to the wrists, while the hands are casually tucked into the pockets of black dress pants. He leans against the doorway, easy as you please, like there’s nothing in the world amiss about him standing in the women’s restroom. 

You gasp almost silently in surprise. “You scared me,” you explain sheepishly. You smooth down your dress with clammy palms. 

He’s watching you with electricity in his bright blue eyes, a small smile on his lips as he drinks you in. “Got a little jealous, everyone fawning over you and Pete.”

It’s preposterous for him to feel neglected; you spent most of last night shared between him and Bucky in their bed, over and over until you’d all collapsed in exhaustion. Peter had taken you in the kitchen after you’d woken to the smell of coffee, but that was beside the point. 

“Steve,” you start, apprehension in your voice, “it’s our engagement party.”

He’s across the bank of sinks and pinning you to the wall with his massive chest before you can blink. “Way I see it, sweetheart, you’ve been part of the family for some time.” His voice is absolutely dripping with innuendo. “Welcomed you into our home, had the pleasure of getting to know you better than we ever could’ve hoped-“

“If you say I’m the daughter you never had I’m going to throw up,” you hiss venomously. 

He’s unfazed, as always. His fingers trail up and down the length of your arm, feather-light, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “God, you’re fucking beautiful.” 

“Steve,” you protest with more force. “Someone could walk in-“

He grins, toothy and dangerous. “Four years and still making me work for it.” He leans further into your space, crowding you against the scrolling curlicues on the wallpaper. “Did you remember my rule for tonight, baby?”

Your cheeks burn. “Yes,” you answer obediently. 

A warm hand trails up your thigh, under the hem of your dress, until he reaches his destination. He cups you, slides his index finger between your bare lips. “Good girl,” he praises upon finding you as he’d instructed. “And shaved, too. Just how I like it.” 

It’s a favorite of all three of them; they love the smooth, delicate skin of your pussy as they lick and finger and fuck you. 

He begins to tug your dress up towards your hips with a gleam in his eye. 

You grab the fabric and pull down anxiously. “Please. People are going to wonder where I am. I have to get back to the party-“

“We’ll be quick, honey.” He jerks upward sharply and the hem slips out of your hands. One knee wedges between your thighs, driving them apart. 

His steel-cable arms circle you and turn your body so you’re facing the wall, bent so your ass juts out, displaying you to his hungry gaze. He scrunches the skirt of your dress up over your hips and lets out a low whistle at the sight of you. His fingers tease and caress your folds, which grow wetter despite your reluctance. 

As you brace yourself against the wall, you remind yourself that if the last four years have taught you nothing else, it’s that Steve and Bucky always, always get what they want. You let your hips press back into his hands, once again giving him the free reign over your body that they’ve commanded since your senior year of high school. 

There’s rustling behind you, and it’s only a few short moments before you feel the hot, blunt nudge of Steve’s cock teasing at your entrance. “Always so ready for me,” he breathes as the head pushes just inside you. He drives forward, a millimeter at a time, and you can feel his pulse through his grip on you. You whine, desperate, as he stuffs you full. 

“How are you still so tight?” Steve pants in your ear. “Just had you last night, both of us, and it’s like I’m poppin’ your cherry all over again, baby girl.” He gives a sharp thrust of his hips like he’s doing just that, and you moan, you can’t help it, his cock just fills you so perfectly-

“Mm, we reminiscing in here?” It’s a testament to how strung out you already are that you don’t notice the second presence until it’s dripping filth into your ear. “I love a trip down memory lane.”

Bucky slaps the meat of your ass as his husband spears you on his dick. You bite back a cry at the sudden sting, and clench your walls around Steve. He sucks in air through his teeth. “Fuck.” 

True to his word, Steve pumps you straight through to an orgasm so powerful you swear you see stars. While you’re shuddering through the tides of carnal pleasure, he swears and slams into you with long strokes, finally burying himself in your heat and pulsing his release deep inside. 

Bucky just leans against the wall near your head, watching hot-eyed and smug the entire time. You should be used to this - where one goes the other isn’t long to follow. 

Once Steve’s fully sated, he slips out his softening dick and you feel the wet slide of his come dripping out of you. All three men love that, blowing their loads deep in your pussy when they fuck you. You’d gotten yourself on birth control not long after your first encounters with Peter’s dads, remembering well the icy fear of waiting for your period each month after they’d drained themselves in you. 

You rise, back aching from your bent position, and meet Bucky’s eyes. His smirk widens as he palms himself through his slacks and pushes between your shoulder blades until you can practically grab your ankles. “My turn.” 

***

When you emerge some time later, you’re shocked to find that your guests hardly noticed your little intermission from the festivities, kept in good spirits with expensive food and plenty of wine. 

A trickle of come trails down your thigh. You’d done your best to clean yourself up, but both men pumped what felt like a gallon of their seed into you, and without panties there was little you could do to keep your dignity.

Peter sidles up to you and kisses your cheek. He eyes you knowingly. “Were you a good girl for them?” he murmurs so low only you can hear. 

You nod demurely. He smiles, satisfied, and presses his lips to your temple affectionately. “God, I love you,” he says against your sweaty skin. “You’re perfect, you know that?” 

It’s a knee-jerk reaction by this point; you preen and press yourself against the long line of his body, pleased with the words of praise. He rests his chin on the top of your head. 

Over the past four years he’d grown impossibly taller, and muscle tone began to fill out his shoulders and arms, carving out his abs and back. He isn’t bulky like his fathers, still lithe and athletic, but he cuts a much more imposing figure now than in his teen years. 

You wrap your fingers around his biceps and kiss him proper, right in the middle of the crowded party room. Someone whistles and you break apart, smiling sheepishly. 

Peter catches your lips again. “Let ‘em look,” he whispers, before capturing your mouth once more. 


	8. Epilogue II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I can’t thank you all enough for your comments and kudos - the encouragement is wonderful! 
> 
> So, this epilogue is...the kinkiest thing I’ve ever written and definitely the most I’ve ever published. I know I say that every time I add to this story, but I mean it this time. Big pregnancy/breeding/polyamory/gangbang kink, plus anal here so if that’s not your thing, I won’t be offended if you pass on it. 
> 
> If that is your thing, however, ENJOY 😉

This is definitely your favorite dream. 

As you swim to the surface and break through the warm shroud of sleep cradling you, the rocking motions continue to gently push you to and fro. 

It’s Bucky, cock buried inside you, lazily thrusting into your wet heat. 

You groan, though it’s half-hearted. You’d fallen asleep right after he’d filled you with his seed, his softening dick still balls deep within you. You can vaguely recall that he’d awoken at least twice through the night, hot and thick inside you, and fucked you while you drifted just under consciousness. 

On your other side, spooning your naked back, Steve stirred lightly. His heavy leg is flung over yours and Bucky’s tangled ones, nestling you into the protective sheath in between. 

A faint, high-pitched cry pierces the heavy air, followed by soft hushes and coos. Peter must have gotten up with her, then, bless him. He’s been such a model father - attentive, patient, loving. Twenty-three is young for a parent nowadays, but he’s taken to it like a duck to water. 

“That’s it, sweetie,” Bucky’s whispering in your ear, his breath humid against your neck. “Take it, gonna put my baby in you, get you nice and round with it.”

“Look at her tits,” Steve’s deep voice croons, still heavy with sleep. “Love how big they got, how they pop out of her shirts-“

“Hell yeah,” Bucky agrees with a smirk. “You see how men stare at them, watch ‘em bounce? But we’re the only ones who get to see ‘em like this, feel how they fit in our hands, in our mouths.” One large hand, probably Steve’s from behind you, cups one heavy breast, sending a ripple of lust down your spine. 

You whine, half-ashamed - you’d gone up a whole cup size and the self-consciousness still makes you squirm. Your husband and his fathers saw absolutely nothing wrong with this development, however, and fondled your chest at every opportunity to show their appreciation. 

Fingers, you don’t know whose and can’t be bothered to find out, slip between your legs and circle your clit, brushing against where Bucky’s cock is pounding rhythmically into you. “Please,” you gasp. Do you even know what you’re pleading for? Does it matter?

“Oh, baby girl,” Bucky grins, bottoming out inside you, “don’t you worry. You’re gonna get exactly what you need.” 

***

No sooner had your obstetrician cleared you for sex - six weeks post-partum to the day - that Bucky and Steve had pounced on you, ready to satisfy their own biological imperatives now that Peter’s was checked off the list. 

The question became, then, who would go first.

“You’re older than me by, what, a few months?” Steve had chided his husband. “You’re so worried about your old age, maybe you should recuse yourself from such physical exertion. You know, in case you throw out your back, or something.” The withering look on his handsome face would have been amusing if they hadn’t been casually debating who would be next to impregnate you, with no more gravity than if they were bickering over the laundry. 

“I’m just saying,” Bucky had shot back. “What, you wanna rock-paper-scissors it?” 

In the end, Bucky had won, and taken his new task quite seriously. Even with three healthy, red-blooded American men fucking you regularly, Bucky’s single-minded vigor meant you spent virtually every waking moment naked with his cock buried to the hilt inside you. He laid claim over your pussy, pumping you full of come first thing in the morning, again after you all got home from work, and late in the evening as you dozed off to sleep. Steve and Peter had to make do with sharing your mouth, though they’d hinted at your ass a few times and you were starting to think they were serious. 

“Bucky, I’m not kidding. I need to at least start dinner-“

Bent over the kitchen table, skirt hiked up over your hips, Bucky teases the head of his dick at your entrance. With a firm thrust he impales you on his full length, forcing a stunned cry from your throat. He’s just so fucking _big_. 

His hands wrapped themselves firmly around your hipbones, driving your bodies together. “Stevie’s a good cook. Let him take care of it tonight.”

“But - the nanny, she’ll be back soon with - fuck - the baby, she’ll see us-“

“Darcy’s keeping her at the park for a little longer. Special favor to me.” You don’t have to see his face to know he’s got that self-satisfied smirk on his lips. He crashes into you, rolling his hips lewdly. You feel stuffed, filled to the brim. 

“We eat on that, you know.” 

Both of your heads swivel towards the door, landing on your fresh-faced husband and his golden-haired father. Their raised eyebrows make your cheeks burn with humiliation, despite having been caught - and involved - in way more compromising positions with all three men. 

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah? Who says there won’t be none of that tonight?” Smoothly he bends his knees and sweeps his arms under your thighs, tilting your whole body back into his arms and plunging back inside your slick channel. He lays himself onto the varnished wood of the table and plants his feet on the floor to drive himself upward into you. “Come on over, Stevie. You’re probably hungry after a long day, aren’t you, baby?”

Steve’s briefcase hits the tile with a thump and in a flash he’s on his knees between both of your spread legs. The wiry hairs of his beard tickle the sensitive skin of your pussy lips. “Make her come, Steve,” commands Bucky. 

Steve sets to work with long laps of his tongue up and down your slit, a mere inch or two above where Bucky’s pistoning in and out of your increasingly drenched hole. A wrecked moan falls from your lips as Steve’s licks hone in on your clit, circling and suckling on the bud, sending electric ripples up your spine. It’s overwhelming, the filthy pleasure from both the cock and tongue hellbent on debauching you as thoroughly as they can manage. 

You’re steadily climbing to the peaks of your arousal when Steve lets out a guileless chuckle. “Jesus, Buck. She tastes like you.”

Without missing a beat, Bucky shoots back, “Better not be a complaint I’m hearing. You love how I taste, if memory serves me correctly.” He slams into you, as if to punctuate his point, and you moan helplessly. 

Steve’s bright blue eyes peek up over the plane of your belly. “Wasn’t saying that. That’s all she tastes like, is what I mean.” There’s an edge to his voice, just a slight rough spot that anyone could’ve missed, but he buries his face back between your legs before you can do much more than blink. 

Bucky seems to take that as a challenge, and double-times his thrusts into your tender hole. It’s enough to drive you over the edge, and your orgasm seizes you violently, fierce and consuming. Your inner walls clench down on Bucky’s cock and draw a ragged moan from deep in his chest. 

He follows you over the edge not a moment later. You sprawl on top of him, spent and boneless. Steve props his chin on your thigh with a smug grin on his handsome face.

***

Steve cooks tonight. 

***

You’re lying in your rumpled sheets, listening to the rhythmic patter of the shower and waiting patiently for Peter to finish. Your phone glows in the warm lamplight as you scroll through your emails. Junk, junk, ad for diapers - you save that one - one from your alma mater asking for donations…

“Don’t know if I recognize you without Bucky pawing at you like a rabid wolf.”

You startle, eyes flicking to the doorway. Steve’s thickly muscled arms are crossed over his equally bulky chest, bare down to where his pajama bottoms are slung around his narrow hips. He leans casually against the doorframe. “He gets any more territorial, he’ll go full caveman on you.”

You set your phone down reluctantly. “He’s...excited,” you begin. 

“Yeah,” he agrees dryly. 

“Steve,” you hedge uncomfortably. “Bucky’s your husband. Maybe you should be talking to him about-“ 

“I just miss you,” he breaks in. “Miss being inside you. You know I love your mouth,” and with that, heat floods his gaze, “but it ain’t the same, sweetie.”

You can only search his electric blue eyes, at a loss for an answer. 

He steps over the threshold and pads across the carpet. The mattress dips as he perches next to you, one leg resting against yours. “Maybe there’s another way,” he murmurs. Thick fingers creep across the comforter to your thigh. “What do you think? Will you let me?”

You draw in a quick breath. Peter’s hinted at wanting your ass before, but never so brazen as to let his hands wander there. 

“Steve,” your voice pitches higher in protest. “I-I’m not sure-“

“I miss you, baby. I know Peter does, too. Maybe there’s a way we can make us all happy.” He peels the blanket back, inch by inch. “I want to try, honey. Let me just try.”

In a blink he slides into the sheets beside you and draws you close with those steel-cable arms of his. He grinds his hips against your ass, pressing his filling cock to you. Fingers, warm and gentle, trace the curve of your hip and cup your cheek before dipping down to your center. They follow the line of that intimate seam further back-

He kisses behind your ear, caressing the sensitive skin there with his tongue. “You know,” he echoes your thoughts. His breath is hot on your neck, your throat. “Never fucked you there before. No one has. Right, baby? I’d be the first to put my cock in your ass?” 

The crudeness of his words juxtaposed alongside his earnest, sweet voice sweeps the breath from your lungs. 

A shrill creak makes you jump. Peter’s head of damp waves pokes out from the steamy en-suite. His eyes land on Steve and he frowns as he rubs a towel over his shoulders. “Dad.”

It’s a testament to just how...unique…your sex life is that Steve’s hands don’t even skip a beat as they roam over your curves. “Just getting her warmed up.”

“ _Dad._ ”

Steve huffs behind you. “Fine.” 

Peter emerges fully from the bathroom, wearing only a pair of boxers. He tosses the wet towel behind him and it lands with a slap on the slick tile. His eyes are hot as they drag over the length of your body. 

He sighs, propping one knee up on the bed, and studies you. “You’ve never, right?” 

“No,” you answer, strained. “No one’s ever...done that. There. You know that.” 

He appears to contemplate this for a moment, then nods. “You want to try it?” 

“I’m scared,” you confess in a tiny voice. “I’m scared it’ll hurt.”

Peter pulls you close and wraps you tightly in his arms, burying his nose in your hair. “We just wanna make you feel good, baby girl,” he reassures you. “I...I don’t know if it’ll hurt, the first time, I’ll be honest. But I’ll try to make it good for you, I promise. You trust me, right?”

You nod, safely caged in his arms. 

“Alright,” he agrees decisively. He glances at his father matter-of-factly. “But I go first.” You feel the shrug of Steve’s shoulders behind you. 

Immediately your heart rate ticks up. First?

But the time for hesitation has passed; Peter’s left hand roams back down, down between your legs. The comforter is tossed unceremoniously to the floor, along with your camisole and panties, leaving you completely bare before both men. You cry out softly as one long finger dips inside you, where there’s still two loads of come from your earlier dalliances with Bucky, and coats its length in slick. 

Peter guides your hand under the elastic waistband of his boxers and closes your fingers around his length. “Touch me.” You comply nearly automatically, stroking gently from root to tip. He hisses at the sensation. 

“Me too, sweetheart.” Steve turns you onto your back and pulls his pajama pants down past his hips. His thick cock stands at attention. Your hand barely circles the base as you jerk both of them slowly, distracted by Peter’s wet thrusts into your pussy. 

He slips his finger from your slickness and glides them further down to touch your hole, and you barely have enough time to react before it’s pushing inside you. The sensation is foreign and your gut reaction is to wriggle away, but Peter’s other arm is locking you against him. 

He pauses to slide another finger into your come-soaked pussy to lubricate it, and then you feel both pressing steadily into your ass. You whimper as they stretch you, feeling vulnerable and butterflied under his ministrations. 

“How does it feel, baby?”

Your face twists as your emotions war with the sensation of strangeness, of perversity. 

“You want me to stop?”

Your pulse thunders in your ears as one, two, three heartbeats tick by. When you answer, it’s as if the hoarse, throaty voice isn’t your own.

“No.” 

And there it is. Shame burns through you, the plain truth of your submission laid bare. You had surrendered yourself in ways that defied imagination, but there was no denying you were a willing (and often enthusiastic) participant. 

Peter must deem you ready after a few minutes of careful preparation, and slides both fingers out. He shoves his boxers down his thighs, freeing his cock, and settles himself between your spread knees. He gazes down at you, his handsome face a maelstrom of lust and awe and animal desire, and lines his tip up with your drenched pussy. With a vigorous thrust, he drives all the way inside in one hard stroke. 

You keen at the intrusion and involuntarily squeeze Steve’s cock in response, which you’re still dutifully stroking. “Peter,” you nearly sob. He’s a good size, just a little more than you can comfortably handle, but with such an abrupt intrusion he feels twice as big. 

“I know, baby,” he rasps as his hips piston back and forth. “Just gonna get myself nice and slicked up.” In Bucky’s come. He’s using Bucky’s come as lube. You nearly choke at the obscenity of it all. 

“That’s our girl,” Steve murmurs. One large hand caresses over your brow, pushing stray hairs from your damp forehead. 

Your heart is hammering in your chest, the anticipation building. He withdraws fully with a stuttered breath, and shifts himself on the sheets. There’s a hot presence at your hole. You draw in a deep breath and let the air out in tiny puffs as he pushes inside. 

Your lips fall open in a silent wail. Every atom in your being is focused on where he’s breaching you, sinking himself in your depths. 

There’s a sharp sting. You can’t ignore it, the stretch and drag of his flesh against yours. 

“Oh, God,” you moan. “Pete, please, I can’t do it, I can’t, it’s too big-” You reach down, grasping for his hip to slow his movements. Steve’s hand circles your wrist and pins it to the sheets, shushing you. 

Peter pauses his thrust, panting. “I know, baby, you’re so goddamn tight, I can barely get in you.” 

“How-how much more?” you plead. You hope fervently that he’s almost there, that you’ve taken nearly all of him. 

“Halfway there,” he answers, strained. “I’m gonna put the rest of me in, baby, take a deep breath, okay?”

You don’t get the chance to protest. He pulls back just a bit and then, with a firm, decisive push, buries the rest of his cock into your ass, all the way to the hilt. 

The pain flares up, white-hot and blinding. A wailing cry rips out of your throat. 

“I know, I’m sorry. You’re doing so well, such a good girl,” he soothes, dropping kisses over your face and neck. “I’m in you all the way now.” 

“It hurts,” you whimper. It’s a fullness unlike you’ve ever felt; coupled with the sharp flare of pain, you feel like you’ve been impaled on a baseball bat. 

“I know, I know, baby.” He rolls his hips just the slightest, causing you to whine even more. “Don’t know why we didn’t try this sooner. So fucking tight, feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.” His voice is a mix of awe and fevered desire. You close your eyes and try to will the tension from your limbs. 

Slowly, Peter begins to move within you. You register, distantly, the sound of something popping open, maybe a cap, and then there’s blessedly cool wetness around your hole. The fluid slicks the way further and soon he’s thrusting hard in and out of your ass, well and truly fucking you. 

The pain slowly fades out, from a pulsing throb to a dull ache that is quickly overtaken when Steve slips his fingers between your folds, paying your clit some much-needed attention and sparking a hot surge of lust through your veins. 

“That is gorgeous, honey,” Steve croons, his voice a balm to the bundle of nerves you’ve become. “Taking him so well. Can’t wait for my turn.” You try to shake your head, unable to conceive of the idea of your ass taking the monster that Steve calls a dick, but then his hips are in front of your face and you’re sliding your lips around his length. His fingers comb through your hair as he guides your head back and forth. 

“Fuck,” Peter bites off as he bottoms out inside you on a hard thrust, and then his mouth begins to run away from him, drunk on lust and the hot clutch of your ass. “You feel so fucking good. God, look at you, what you let us do to you. Love you so much.” He moans, long and low, as you experiment with pressing your hips back into his. 

It’s only moments after that when his thrusts become hard and erratic. Steve doubles down on your clit, sending you headlong into an explosive orgasm that shakes you down to your core with waves of pleasure. He slams inside you and you feel his cock pump his release deep within, hot and slick. 

“What, my invitation get lost in the mail?” Bucky’s tone is dry, unimpressed. 

You don’t even attempt to move, and can only whimper weakly around Steve’s dick as Peter pulls his from your ass. The trickle of come that follows makes you wince. 

“Figured you couldn’t get it up again anyway,” Steve lobs back. 

“I’m feeling a second wind coming on,” he replies, and the smirk in his voice is anything but discreet. “Got room for one more?”

“‘Course we do. She was just gettin’ me nice and ready.” He smiles beatifically down at you. “I think we’ve waited long enough, though. Some of us ain’t getting any younger.”

Bucky steps into your line of vision and props one knee up on the mattress, tossing Steve a lazy salute in agreement. 

Steve’s cock falls from your lips and his large hands roll you onto your belly, tug your hips back so you’re ass up on the bed. He wastes no time getting you exactly where he wants you. Hands spread you apart, and you can’t hold back the shameful blush that warms your face. 

There’s a press at your entrance, blunt and hot, and-

“No, please, I can’t, not again,” you mewl, “Steve, please-”

“Ssh,” he hushes you even as he thrusts forward slowly, sinking into you. He feels absolutely huge, there’s no way in hell he’ll fit, not without tearing you in two. “You can take it. That’s it, good girl.” 

“Fuck, that’s beautiful,” Bucky murmurs. His hands sweep over your back, your neck, slide under you to cup your tits. 

It takes several agonizing, heart-pounding moments, but finally you feel his hips against the meat of your ass. You did it. You took every inch of him. 

He pulls back at a snail’s pace, then drives steadily back in. Over and over he fills you to bursting. It’s beyond overwhelming, being consumed like this by two - no, three - men who would accept nothing less. 

Steve’s pace ticks up with every stroke. Thick, heavy grunts and guttural moans fill your ears, punctuated by your own whimpers and cries. Just like with Peter, the sensations are jarring, and foreign, but heady in their own wicked way that has you meeting him at every collision of your bodies. 

“What do you say,” Steve pants, “you got one more in you, old man?”

You don’t hear Bucky’s reply, but then Steve slides his arms under you and pulls you up against his chest, plunging into you to the hilt. Bucky slips neatly in your place beneath you, naked save for a wicked smile. He palms his cock expectantly. 

“What?” you ask, bewildered. Surely you can’t - there’s no way - 

Below you, Bucky slides down to line his hips up between your thighs. He rubs the tip of his cock between your folds, catching your clit on each stroke. 

“Ready, baby?” 

“Ready for what?” you cry, distressed. You struggle against Steve’s steel-trap biceps; you may as well be made of tissue paper for all the effect it’s having.

“You’re gonna take both of us,” Bucky says like he’s commenting on the weather. “Stevie’s got your ass, and I’m gonna have that sweet pussy. Make everybody happy, especially you, sweetheart.”

“No,” you protest shrilly. “No, no, please-”

It’s useless. You’ve learned over the years that Steve and Bucky don’t understand anything but full acquiescence. 

“You can do it,” Steve murmurs soothingly. “We’ve been thinking about this for awhile now. You’re a little thing but I promise you can do it.”

Bucky’s hands wrap around your hipbones and he presses you down, halting any further discussion on the topic. His cock breaches your pussy and, for the third time today, disappears inside your depths - except it’s slower going this time, because Steve’s planted fully in your ass. 

“Fuck,” Bucky bites off. “I can feel you, Steve.” 

Neither of them are small men, not by a long shot. The fullness ravages you, paralyzes you, impaled on both of their cocks. With Steve balls deep and Bucky nearly there himself, you’re sure they’ll split you open. 

“God, that’s amazing. Thought she was tight before, now it’s like a fucking vise,” Bucky continues, choked.

And then they begin to move, God help you.

They establish a push-pull rhythm pretty fast, tossing you back and forth like the swells of a wave rolling against the shore. When one slides back the other drives deep. Relentless and hypnotizing. 

“See?” Steve breathes heavily in your ear. “See, you’re doing it, baby.”

You can only moan in response, coherent thoughts far beyond your capability. The pleasure is racing through your nerves like a flame on a line of gasoline, helpless against the onslaught. 

“You getting this, Pete?” Bucky calls from beneath you. 

Dazed, you glance blearily up - and are met with the lens of Peter’s cell phone camera following your every move. He’s smiling warmly. “Wouldn’t miss it.” 

Their hips slam into you from below and behind, meeting your flesh with wet, lewd slaps. “Not gonna last, Stevie,” Bucky bites off. “Too fucking tight.”

“Don’t have to ask permission from me,” Steve shoots back in between heaving breaths. He slips his fingers between your pussy lips and circles your clit with practiced precision. “Come on, beautiful. One more time for us.”

In the end, you manage one more wrecked, nearly painful orgasm from their attentions. They follow you not a moment later, pumping hot come into both of your holes. Peter captures the sticky, messy aftermath of them extricating their cocks from you with voracious satisfaction, his phone focused between your legs. One more addition to the frankly extensive private video collection you’ve starred in over the years. 

You collapse in utter exhaustion onto the sheets, too tired to care about cleaning up. Your men cluster around you and tug the comforter around your bare shoulders. Quiet murmurs float around you like gentle breezes, but you pay them no mind. 

***

Two weeks later, you emerge from the bathroom with the confirmation everyone’s been awaiting - you’re pregnant. Bucky whoops and Peter waves the baby’s tiny fist in a pint-size cheer.

Steve’s eyes gleam, and you know then you’re going to be in for a long night of celebration. 


End file.
